


The Lion and the Hawk

by luxluminaire



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Mages and Templars, Romance, Sexual Content, Templar Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 54,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxluminaire/pseuds/luxluminaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nearly three years have passed since Carver has joined the templars in hopes of stepping out of his brother's shadow. Being a templar is not all fun and games, however, and things become even more complicated when a series of ill-advised events make him realize that his admiration for Knight-Captain Cullen may, in fact, be something more. Carver is therefore left with no choice but to figure out what exists between him and his Knight-Captain, while also navigating his rocky relationship with his brother and becoming increasingly aware of the tension between templars and mages. One thing is certain, though: he definitely didn't ask for any of this.</p><p>(Takes place during Act 2 of Dragon Age II, with a few minor liberties taken in regards to canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Dexterous_Sinistrous, who encouraged me to write this after we'd spent far too much time fawning over how perfect Cullen is in Inquisition.
> 
> Since the events take place during DA2, there are no Inquisition spoilers in this fic, apart from minor details about Cullen's background.

If someone had told Carver earlier that a bottle of wine would be responsible for an unexpected series of events in his life, he would have been very skeptical.

It’s not _just_ the bottle of wine, of course. Many other factors are involved, but Carver likes having something to place the blame on. He does not want to blame any of the _people_ involved, though, and so it all comes down to that one evening with a bottle of wine, friendly conversation, and… well, everything else.

The evening begins no differently than most others. When Carver does not have an evening duty scheduled, he often ends up in the Knight-Captain’s office. He isn’t sure what to call these regular meetings. Cullen calls it “mentoring,” and maybe that’s what it was in the beginning, but Carver has been a fully-fledged templar for close to two and a half years and thus has a decent sense of how things work in the Gallows. Some of the other templars call it “sucking up,” but it’s not Carver’s fault that he thinks the Knight-Captain is brilliant. His brother Garrett calls it “hero worship,” but Carver has long since learned to disregard most of his brother’s opinions. What matters is that he has come to see his Knight-Captain as a role model and a good man, and he has come to enjoy these regular meetings with him.

He stands outside Cullen’s office and knocks on the door. When he hears the reply of “Come in,” he opens the door to step inside.

“Knight-Captain,” he says in his standard deferential greeting, giving a salute.

“Ah. Ser Carver. Please, sit.” Cullen gestures to the chair in front of his desk. Much to Carver’s surprise, he does not appear to be knee-deep in work as he usually is. Often, these meetings are spent with Cullen slowly making his way through paperwork as they talk.

“I trust you are well?” Cullen continues on.

“Well enough, ser.” Carver sits, smoothing out his robes. Even after all of the time that he has spent in templar armor, dealing with the long skirt of his robe is not his favorite thing. He would have thought that he’d have gotten used to it by now.

“Good.” On a second glance, Cullen _does_ have papers in front of him. A duty roster, from the looks of it. He lifts his quill and signs it. “For once, I find myself not overwhelmed with work. Perhaps you won’t mind joining me for a glass of wine?”

“I would appreciate it, ser,” Carver replies. Wine with the Knight-Captain--that is certainly something new. Alcohol is strictly regulated in the Gallows among both the templars and mages, and a knight having a drink with his Knight-Captain is almost unheard of. Knights of a similar rank frequently go out for drinks in the city on their days off, but never something like this.

Cullen rises from his desk and takes out a bottle of wine and two glasses from a nearby cupboard. He returns to his desk, uncorking the bottle and pouring out the crimson liquid within. Carver accepts the glass with a quiet word of thanks. He waits for Cullen to pour his own glass and take a sip before he himself drinks. At least the etiquette that his mother drilled into him as a child is good for something.

“Is there any occasion for the drinks, ser?” he asks.

“You’ve proved yourself admirable throughout the years that you have been with us, Ser Carver. Perhaps it is a little unorthodox for us to be sharing a drink as equals like this, but I hope you won’t find it too forward of me.”

“No, ser.” Carver takes another drink. “I’m honored that you’ve taken such an interest in me. A professional interest, ser,” he amends hastily.

A hint of smile crosses Cullen’s lips before he raises his glass to drink. “From the moment that you stepped into the Gallows as a recruit, I could sense that you were different from most of the other young men and women hoping to make a name for themselves as templars. Your impressive combat record aside.”

Not many of the Kirkwall templar recruits have actual military experience under their belts, and so when he had been a recruit Carver had immediately caught the interest of his superiors due to the time he’d spent in the Fereldan army. He had also put down vague “mercenary experience” on his application, because that’s the best way he can think of to explain the time that he’d spent following his brother around Kirkwall killing slavers, blood mages, and lots of giant cave spiders. He knows how to deal with enemy mages, and he is well aware that this makes him valuable.

“I had my own personal reasons, ser.” Reasons that involve becoming something more than his brother’s shadow or the only “normal” child stuck between two mage siblings. “And it’s thanks to your guidance that I’ve been able to come so far.” Okay, so maybe _that’s_ why some of the other knights call him a suck-up. The sentiment is genuine, though, not anything fabricated to please his superiors and earn their approval.

Again Cullen gives him that small smile. “I’m honored that you think so. You’ve very much intrigued me, at any rate. Particularly in your treatment of the mages.”

“You… think I’m too soft on them, ser?” Carver asks, a little hesitant.

He has been expecting this point of criticism for a long time now. Is this why Cullen has been building him up with compliments, only to scold him for showing too much mercy to the mages? Carver _tries_ not to do so. He knows his duties, and he has seen firsthand how dangerous rogue mages can be. But it’s hard when he is keeping watch in the apprentice quarters and frequently sees so much of Bethany in the young girls that it hurts. He won’t easily forget the first failed Harrowing during which he had been designated as the slayer, having to run his sword through a girl no older than Bethany had been when she died.

“You seem to treat them with a certain amount of sympathy,” says Cullen. He sips his wine, watching Carver carefully. “Which I suppose does not automatically qualify as ‘too soft,’ as I have seen you carry out the necessary tasks against mages when it is your duty. I don’t intend to scold you for your sympathy toward them. It is merely… curious, I suppose.”

It’s not really curious at all. Not until arriving at Kirkwall had Carver seen how dangerous mages could truly be. Before that, “mages” meant his family--his father, his brother, his sister. The most danger that magic had ever presented to him was that time when his brother had gotten angry and thrown a fireball at him when they were younger. Coming across abominations and blood magic has changed all that, however, and it is the memories of these mages that remind Carver why his position as a templar is so important.

Carver takes a drink. “My twin sister was a mage,” he admits. Normally he would not confess this to Cullen, but there is not much the templars can do to hunt down Bethany when she’s dead. It’s a terrible thought, but it’s true.

“Was?” Cullen’s eyebrows rise up in inquiry.

“She died when we were running from the Blight. An ogre attacked her.” The memory of the ogre’s fist closing around Bethany’s body and slamming her into the ground still haunts his thoughts four years later. How just like that, his sister, his twin, his other half, was gone. Even now, he misses her like someone would miss an arm or a leg.

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” The honey-brown depths of Cullen’s eyes show the sincerity of his sympathy. “She was an apostate, then?”

“Yes, ser.” He drinks, and so does Cullen. “She was harmless, though. She knew how to control her magic. But she resented that she had it. She always said that she wanted to be normal like me.”

“She no doubt feared the power that she possessed,” says Cullen, nodding in agreement. “No matter how much control they have over their magic, mages are still dangerous weapons. And that is why we must do our duties. Not just to protect the citizens of Kirkwall, but to protect the mages from themselves. From losing control. I have seen what happens when a Circle becomes overrun by abominations and blood magic. It is not an experience I wish to repeat.”

“But she wasn’t a weapon,” Carver replies, not entirely sure whether he likes the implications of Cullen’s words. “She was just Bethany. My sister. Nothing more.”

“And perhaps I have found the source of your sympathies.” Cullen takes a drink, finishing off his glass. He pours himself another. His fingers curl around the stem of the wine glass, his thumb absently drumming against its bottom. “But I do find it interesting that you chose the path of a templar, considering your sister. No doubt you spent most of your life ensuring that she evaded the notice of the templars. and yet now you’ve become one yourself.”

“It seemed like the best choice, ser,” says Carver. “We needed the coin. My brother had left on an expedition to the Deep Roads hoping to find wealth there, and most of the coin that he’d been earning went toward funding that.” And of course Garrett hadn’t even let him come along, which hurt in its own way. “And I reckoned being a templar was honest work. Protecting the people and serving the Maker. But of course,” Carver sighs in displeasure and drinks the last of the wine from his glass, “Garrett got bloody rich from the expedition and was able to give our mother all the coin she needed, so it was all pointless in the end.” Because that’s what his brother excels at: making Carver feel redundant.

“Is it really pointless, doing the Maker’s work?” Cullen muses. “You enjoy what you do, do you not?”

“‘Course I do, ser.” Carver twirls his empty wine glass in his hand. Being a templar isn’t all fun and games, but at least he’s _good_ at it and never has to face comparisons to his brother. “And sometimes I reckon the Maker always wanted me to become a templar. I was named for one, you know.”

“Really?” Cullen gestures for Carver’s wine glass. He passes it to him to have it filled again.

“Ser Maurevar Carver. A friend of my father’s, apparently. He helped my father escape from the templars so that he and my mother could leave Kirkwall in peace. I used to think that all templars were prigs--no offense, ser--but after I learned that, I realized that if one helped my father, they can’t all be bad.”

Cullen hands the glass of wine back to him. “And what business was your father in that would make him want to avoid templar attention?”

Well. Carver has certainly walked right into that one. His father is longer dead than Bethany, though, and is therefore perfectly safe to reveal as a mage. As long as he doesn’t say anything about his brother, he will be fine.

“He was an apostate too,” he admits. “Technically he was in the Circle at that point, but after he and my mother fell in love he never went back. Anyway, that’s why Bethany was in such good control of her magic. He taught her how to use it properly and avoid becoming an abomination.”

He drinks, trying not to think about all of the hours his father had spent with his siblings giving them lessons in magic. Carver may have had the freedom to roam around the village and countryside as a child without worrying about accidentally exposing the magic that he doesn’t have, but it also meant that his father inevitably gave more attention to Bethany and Garrett.

“The son and brother of mages,” Cullen says thoughtfully. “Yes. That does explain a lot about you. And I have no doubt that your father and sister were indeed effective at evading the temptation of demons. But I must remind you that not all mages are like them, and that is why you as a templar must be vigilant and never back down from your duty.”

“Yes, ser.”

“But.” Cullen’s small smile returns after he has taken a drink. “You are not here to listen to me lecture you about the treatment of mages. You are here because I enjoy talking with you. The difference in position between us makes me a little wary to call you my friend, but your company is always appreciated here. I must confess that sometimes I do get lonely. My work leaves me little time for socialization.”

“I enjoy your company too, Knight-Captain.” Carver likes how despite the authority that Cullen holds over him, he speaks to him like an equal. After spending most of his life being talked down to, mostly by his brother, the feeling that someone _doesn’t_ think of him as stupid and inferior is more than welcomed.

“Then let us drink.”

Cullen raises his glass to Carver, and Carver copies him. They both drink, soon settling back into the easy back-and-forth flow of conversation. Carver tells stories about his childhood in Ferelden and his time in Kirkwall before joining the templars, and Cullen shares his own tales of Ferelden and the experiences that he has had as a templar. The wine bottle slowly empties as Cullen keeps pouring them more. Halfway through Cullen’s story about a recruit prank gone wrong that ended up with a recruit stark naked in front of half the dining hall, he gets up and produces another bottle. Idly, Carver wonders how much wine Cullen has stored away in his office.

“I’m glad nothing that awful happened to me when I was a recruit,” Carver says, accepting yet another glass. He has lost track of how much they have had, but he knows that it is enough to have loosened both of them up. “I would’ve died from embarrassment. It was bad enough when my brother caught me messing around with a girl once.”

“Oh?” Cullen laughs, taking a drink. Carver has never heard him truly laugh until this night. It’s a nice sound. Like a… well, he can’t think of a good comparison. He isn’t exactly great at metaphors, especially after several drinks.

“It was when we were still in Lothering. I was--seventeen, I think? There was this girl, everyone called her Peaches, who fancied my brother.” He can hardly believe that he is talking about girls with his Knight-Captain. “All the girls fancied him, really, but of course he has no interest in women. I reckon the only time he’ll ever be with a woman is when Mother starts pestering him about producing heirs. Anyway. But _I_ fancied her. Peaches. Not my mother.” He laughs, and Cullen smiles as well. “She was really upset when Garrett turned her down, so she came to me. Like I was the consolation prize for not getting him, but _I_ wasn’t going to say no to her. She was so--” He makes a gesture indicating large breasts that he normally wouldn’t dare to make in front of a superior officer. “One day we were messing around behind a shed, and Garrett found us. I think he did it on purpose just to humiliate me. He wouldn’t stop mocking me about it for _weeks_. But I’m sure I got even with him somehow.”

“You and your brother seem to have quite the rivalry between you,” Cullen notes. He drinks, wiping a spilled drop of wine from his lips.

“Because he’s the charming one that everyone likes and I’m just his baby brother.” Carver tries not to sound too resentful. “Our father liked him the best too. He never _said_ it, but he did. All I ever heard from him was ‘You should be more like Garrett’ and ‘Look what Garrett’s done, I’m so proud.’ He never went on about how proud he was of _me_. Hardly anyone ever does, because I’m just the younger brother stuck in his shadow.”

Maker, he sounds like a petulant child. He rarely has the opportunity to talk about his true feelings about his brother, though, as whiny as they may be. He only wants someone to understand how hard it is for him to have spent most of his life as an inferior version of his brother.

“ _I’m_ proud of you, Carver,” says Cullen. “Carver”--not “Ser Carver.” He wonders when Cullen has decided to dispense with formalities. Probably around the same time that Carver stopped adding a respectful “ser” to most of his statements, which, if he remembers correctly, happened sometime between his fourth drink and Cullen’s story about an ill-advised drinking game that he once played in a Fereldan pub.

“You’re just saying that,” Carver replies. He looks down at his wine glass. Not much liquid remains in it. Has he consumed its contents that quickly?

“I’m serious. You have proven yourself many times over in the time you have spent among the Order. You became a fully-fledged templar much faster than many of the other recruits, and you have done excellent work since then. You managed to catch my interest and have me take you on as a protege.” The way that Cullen says “interest” is intriguing, but Carver lets the thought pass. “And you have never done anything to make me disappointed in you.”

Carver opens his mouth and then closes it again, unsure of what to say. All he manages to get out is a quiet “Thank you, ser” in a brief return to formality.

The sound of the bell indicating curfew echoes from the courtyard. Time truly has passed too quickly in this office, with the hours filled with wine and good conversation. Despite all of the previous occasions that he has spent time with Cullen, he feels as if he has never truly known his Knight-Captain until this night. Maybe sharing a few (okay, a _lot_ ) of drinks with a superior is an unconventional act, but the combination of drinks and Cullen’s listening ear fills Carver with a strange sort of warm happiness.

“You should return to your quarters,” says Cullen. “I don’t want to keep you too late. I’ve already made you listen to enough of my terribly uninteresting stories.”

“I thought they were interesting,” Carver counters. He wants to say “I think _you’re_ interesting,” but it would be a strange thing for him to say.

Cullen chuckles. “Another time, then.” He rises from his seat, and so does Carver. A rush of lightheadedness makes him waver a little. “Perhaps with a little less wine,” he adds.

“I’m fine,” Carver assures him. He has been far drunker than this before--mostly from all of those times when he had joined his brother and his companions for piss-cheap ale and whiskey at the Hanged Man. One time he had tried to flirt with Merrill, except of course she’d never noticed. Isabela had then pinched his arse, and he’d been so pleased about that until his brother pointed out that Isabela pinches _everyone’s_ arse.

“I don’t doubt it.” Cullen walks around to the front of his desk. He lays a hand on the shoulder pauldron of Carver’s armor. The touch is different somehow. Friendlier. Kind of electrifying. Which is strange, because this is just Cullen. Just his Knight-Captain. Not even a friend. But kind of a friend after tonight, even if Cullen insists that the difference in position between them precludes friendship.

“Well.” Carver clears his throat. “Good night, Knight-Captain.”

“Good night, Ser Carver,” Cullen echoes him.

A mutual moment of hesitation passes. Carver picks unnecessarily at the skirt of his robe, hoping that he will not trip over himself on the way back to his quarters. Cullen’s hand still rests on his shoulder. Maker, his eyes are beautiful--but why the void is Carver admiring his Knight-Captain’s eyes?

Whatever hesitation exists between them breaks all at once. They close the distance that separates them, and then Carver’s mouth is on Cullen’s. Or maybe it’s Cullen’s mouth that is on his; he can’t really tell. All that he knows is that it is mutual enough that he doesn’t feel like Cullen is taking advantage of him, nor does he feel like he is making an inappropriate advance on Cullen.

Carver has kissed enough women before--not a lot, but enough--to know that kissing a man is much different. The stubble on Cullen’s chin rubs against his skin, and there is a struggle for dominance as the kiss deepens. Carver lets his tongue run across Cullen’s lips before pushing them apart. Cullen does not resist, and _oh Maker_ , his tongue is in his Knight-Captain’s mouth. He never would have thought this was possible, but here it is.

Both of Cullen’s hands are on his shoulders now. They creep down his back, scrabbling across armor before he pushes Carver up against the closest wall of the office. Carver bites down on Cullen’s lip in response, not wanting to give up control. He gives in anyway, though, his hand moving to the back of Cullen’s neck, curling around strands of golden-blond hair. Cullen runs a hand down the front of Carver’s armor, bringing it closer to the fabric of his robe until--

Until he stops.

Cullen lets go of Carver, pulling his mouth away from him and stepping back. Carver holds back his frustrated noise of disappointment, studying Cullen’s face closely to determine whether it contains regret.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says. “We… This is not the time.”

Carver licks his lips nervously, stepping away from the wall. “Yes, ser,” he replies, because what else is he supposed to do? Ask Cullen what he means by “This is not the time”? Wonder whether it was a mistake to let this happen, because even though Cullen is kind of brilliant at kissing he is still Carver’s superior officer? Mentally panic about how he has kissed another man and thoroughly enjoyed it? All of those options are too much for him to comprehend right now.

“You don’t want to be out too far past curfew,” says Cullen. “You should hurry to your quarters.”

“Yes, ser,” Carver repeats. He departs from the office with a final word of goodnight, and when his head spins and his thoughts churn all the way back to his quarters, he suspects that it is not just the alcohol at fault.


	2. Chapter 2

When Carver wakes up the next morning, he doesn’t remember what he has been dreaming about. Whatever it was must have been good, though, because he has become uncomfortably hard in his smallclothes. Which isn’t necessarily the embarrassing part, because sometimes that happens and there’s nothing he can do to control it. The embarrassing part is that his thoughts immediately go to Cullen when he wakes up, which is _beyond_ awkward when he’s got a hard cock. He then remembers what happened on the previous night, and everything falls into place.

“Oh, for the love of the _Maker_ ,” he groans, twisting around as best as he can to bury his face into his pillow. He tries to focus on something, _anything_ , to redirect his thoughts. His mind settles upon the various verses from the Chant that have been drilled into his head enough that he can recall them with little effort.

But he doesn’t have much time to distract himself. The bell for breakfast will ring soon, and he cannot be late. Most of the other knights are already well on their way to being ready. Carver therefore drags himself out of bed, stumbling toward the bucket of water to wash up. He splashes water onto his face, and when his body continues to not cooperate, he dunks his entire head into the cold water for good measure.

“All right there, Ser Carver?” one of the other templars asks him.

“I’m fine,” Carver grumbles, shaking out his hair like a wet dog. He goes to the lavatory to take a piss and gives himself a quick shave. He downs his morning lyrium ration before pulling on his robes and boots. When he proceeds to putting on his armor, he fumbles with the buckles and restraints that he usually has no difficulty with.

“Andraste’s _tits_ ,” he mutters in irritation when he realizes he is the only one left in the room. He finishes putting on his armor as best as he can and almost trips over his own feet rushing to the dining hall.

After breakfast, Carver’s morning task is guard duty in the Gallows courtyard. It is certainly one of the easiest jobs that a templar has, but it is also the most mind-numbing, standing in full armor and helmet in the hot sun. Carver hates guard duty to begin with, and today it is all the more awful because he has no distraction from the thoughts that refuse to leave his mind.

So. Last night with Cullen. That had actually _happened_. Carver can almost convince himself that he’d dreamed up the whole thing, but his memory of it is far too vivid for it to be anything but reality. And that kiss had been--well, brilliant, but also very clearly something that they had both wanted. Which is strange, because Carver _doesn’t_ kiss other men. That’s the kind of thing that his brother does, and although Carver doesn’t judge him too much for it, he himself has no interest in men. He likes _women_. And their… womanly bits. Which Cullen definitely does not have.

It must have been the wine, he decides. They had drunk far more than they probably should have. And Carver doesn’t know about Cullen, but it has certainly been a while since Carver has bedded someone. When _was_ the last time? He usually goes to the Blooming Rose for that kind of thing, because that is the easiest way to get a good lay and the ladies are often impressed by young templars such as himself. And the last time he had been there was… Six? Seven months ago? Maker, it really _has_ been a while. That definitely explains a lot.

But if the kiss had been nothing more than a drunk, lonely action, then why is Carver still thinking about it? He should be able to laugh it off as yet another embarrassing drunk experience and move on. Moving on is not waking up hard while thinking about Cullen, nor is it his inability to get the kiss out of his mind. Cullen’s lips had been so soft despite the roughness of the kiss, and the memory of him pressing Carver up against the wall brings an awkward warmth to his groin.

No. He is not going to do this here. Not in the middle of the courtyard where he’s supposed to be focusing on keeping watch. His hands sweat beneath his gauntlets, and droplets bead against his forehead under his helmet. He shifts from one foot to another, watching the recruits training in the yard and wishing he was anywhere but here.

The next few hours before lunch break pass by unbearably slowly, although Carver is mostly able to keep his mind off everything by mentally repeating various parts of the Chant until the words have little meaning to him. When the midday bell rings, relieving him of his duty, he heads to the dining hall for his meal. He shovels the cold stew and stale bread into his mouth, only half-listening to the conversation around him. One of the other templars is trying to convince him to join a group going for drinks at the Hanged Man on the next free day. Carver declines. He has avoided the Hanged Man ever since becoming a templar, only because his brother and his companions spend an awful lot of time there. He likes some of Garrett’s friends well enough: Varric’s an all right guy who understands Carver’s plight of being a younger brother, Isabela can be pretty amusing when she’s not spouting constant innuendos, and Merrill is kind of adorable even though she makes some very questionable choices. However, Carver is now beyond the point where he needs to latch onto his brother’s friends in order to feel useful.

Except now he is thinking about kissing a man, which is something that Garrett does. Apparently he can’t even have an embarrassing drunken experience without ending up as a less competent version of his brother, because Garrett would have been able to get much more than a kiss from Cullen. Not that Carver _wants_ more than a kiss. That would be… no. No matter how long it has been since he has had sex, he definitely does not want to do _that_ with Cullen. Why is he even thinking about it?

He bangs his head against the dining table in exasperation, and he is fairly certain everyone around him thinks he is going mad. With the way that things are going right now, he would not be surprised if it were true.

* * *

That evening, Carver returns to his quarters once he has no more duties to attend to. Normally, he would choose to spend the remaining hours until curfew in Cullen’s office, but he doesn’t know how he is going to ever be able to step foot in that room again without dying from embarrassment. He won’t be able to look Cullen in the eye again, either. Maker’s fucking _balls_ , last night has truly ruined everything.

He collapses down onto his bed, staring up at the bunk above him. At his age, it shouldn’t matter whether he sleeps in the top or bottom bunk, but after years of his brother forcing him to have the top bunk, he is all too pleased to have ended up on the bottom. The other bunks are all currently empty. The other templars that he shares the room with must have evening duties or are spending time elsewhere.

It is foolish for him to be hiding away in here, Carver decides. He will not be able to avoid Cullen forever. For all he knows, Cullen is not even dwelling on what has happened, and thus Carver not seeking out his company and tutelage as usual will seem insulting. Perhaps it would be better for him to press on with his normal routine as if nothing has happened. He will just have to keep himself from staring at Cullen’s lips and wondering what it would be like to kiss him again.

And of course, now he is thinking about Cullen’s lips. Cullen’s lips on his own. Cullen’s lips on his throat. Cullen’s lips on his bare chest, slowly making their way down his body until-- _No_. This is wrong. Cullen is a man, and his Maker-damned Knight-Captain on top of that. Carver scrubs his hand across his forehead, as if the motion can rid himself of these images, but it does little to help.

His thoughts turn to what Cullen’s bare chest might look like, all smooth muscle and probably a few scars that make him look impressive and intimidating. He has heard some of the female knights waxing lyrical about Cullen’s physical form in a purely hypothetical, too-bad-he’s-our-Knight-Captain way. Previously Carver would ignore such talk because, well, what interest is it to him? Now that he thinks about it, however, they have a point. And to think that those female knights have probably wondered what it is like to kiss Cullen, and yet _he_ is the one who has actually experienced it. If everything else about Cullen is as good as his kiss, then perhaps Carver is right for wanting more, despite everything that tells him that he shouldn’t.

And bloody _wonderful_ , he is starting to get hard. At least he is alone right now. Maybe a good wank is all he needs to get rid of these thoughts. He will relieve the sexual frustration that has built up inside him, and then everything will go back to normal with no more strange thoughts about Cullen. He is probably only latching on to the kiss because that is the most intimate contact he has had in several months that has come from something other than his own hand.

With a sigh, he hitches up his robe and dips his hand into his trousers and smallclothes to pull out his cock. He grips it and strokes slowly at first, closing his eyes and thinking about the woman he had been with last time he’d been at the Rose. He can’t remember her name, but she’d had pretty blonde hair and a nice pair of tits. He thinks about how her skin had felt beneath his hands and the sensation of being inside her slick, wet heat. His hand moves faster, and as he stifles a moan the woman’s face changes. Her features become rougher, her hair curling and shortening into a more masculine style. The shadow of stubble appears on her chin and upper lip, and _fuck_ , this is Cullen. Carver can’t stop now, though, and thinking about him only brings more unbearable tension to his groin. Soon the image extends to include what he imagines the rest of Cullen’s body to look like, hard muscles and _very_ well-proportioned where it matters. Carver promptly feels disgusted with himself. Thinking about his Knight-Captain’s cock just isn’t right.

The door opens. Carver hastily tucks himself away with a mental curse, forced to pretend that he hasn’t been thinking utterly shameful thoughts. His cock is still hard and yearning for release, but there is not much he can do about that.

“Ser Carver?” It is one of the recruits, no doubt sent on an errand. Carver can't remember his name, not that it matters. “Knight-Captain Cullen is requesting you in his office.”

Of all the worst timing. The Maker must really have it in for him. Carver’s first instinct is to lie and say he isn’t feeling well, but he shouldn’t prolong the inevitable. “I’ll be right there,” he says instead.

He waits until the recruit has departed before standing up. In a repeat of this morning’s events, he douses his head in cold water to shock his body into cooperation. Feeling more sexually frustrated than ever, he leaves his quarters and makes a path toward Cullen’s office with a certain amount of dread.

He enters the room at Cullen’s invitation and stumbles through the formalities. As he sits down in the chair in front of the desk, he avoids looking Cullen in the eye. He can feel Cullen’s eyes on him, however, no doubt bewildered at Carver’s sodden head.

“I feel like we should discuss what happened last night,” Cullen says with no further preamble. “I don’t want things to be…” He hesitates. “... _awkward_ between us.”

“Right. Awkward.” Carver laughs nervously. Cullen is hardly one to talk about awkward. Not unless _he_ has just been interrupted from having a wank while thinking about the person who now sits in front of him.

Cullen steeples his fingers, resting them against his forehead in a moment of mental preparation before speaking. “It was the influence of the wine. It caused me to… forget myself. It was highly irresponsible of me to make an advance on you when I am your superior. I will not let it happen again.”

“It wasn’t just you, ser,” Carver replies. “I wanted it too.” More like he _wants_ it, present tense, because that much has become inescapable.

“But you understand why it must not happen again?”

“Yes, ser,” says Carver, even though his mind is saying “no.” “Because fraternization between templars isn’t allowed.” And because they are both men, he supposes, but he doesn’t say that part.

“And it would be ill-advised for us to carry out anything further.” Cullen runs a hand through his hair in a nervous motion. “As much as that one moment was, well. Enjoyable.”

“I thought so too, ser,” Carver stammers out, embarrassed despite Cullen’s similar sentiments. “I haven’t really been able to stop thinking about it.” He promptly winces. That is _definitely_ the wrong thing to say. It makes him sound like some kind of love-starved twit. Which he supposes he is, in a way, but that’s not the point.

Silence falls between them. Carver is becoming increasingly convinced that this is the worst conversation that he has ever had in his life. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Drops of water from his still-damp hair roll down the back of his neck, and he reaches back to wipe them away.

Finally, Cullen speaks. “You may have not heard the rumors. The Knight-Commander has been very good at silencing them and punishing those who speak of it. But there was once a rather persistent rumor going around that while at the Fereldan Circle, I harbored feelings for one of the mages there.”

“I hadn’t heard that, ser.” Carver wonders why this is relevant. They haven’t been talking about mages.

“I do not wish to speak on that matter any further, as most of my memories of the Fereldan Circle, whether they involve attraction to mages or not, are not pleasant ones. But surely you understand where I am going with this. An attraction between a templar and a mage presents a great number of complications. They can never be equals, due to the natural amount of power that a templar possesses over a mage. Likewise, the dangerous nature of mages means that there must always be an element of control involved on both their parts. An emotional connection, a passionate one, makes it more difficult for that level of control to be maintained.”

“But we’re both templars, ser,” Carver points out, not entirely sure where Cullen is going with this statement.

“But we are not equals either, are we not?”

 _Oh_. So it’s about fraternization again. “Yeah, but… It’s not like between a templar and a mage, right? It’s just a difference of authority. Not in…” Carver stops there, unsure of how to continue on.

“It would still be a distraction. You’ve admitted that much yourself. And passion causes us to act in strange ways, ways that do not always fall under the established protocol of the Order. That is why, regardless of what we may feel for each other, we cannot let anything further happen.”

But Carver doesn’t _feel_ anything toward Cullen, does he? He has thought about the kiss, sure, but that doesn’t mean that he has feelings for the man. It’s just the desire for something physical. It _has_ to be. But if it is no more than a physical attraction, then why does it hurt so much to hear Cullen stop things before they go any further?

“I _am_ fond of you, Ser Carver,” Cullen continues on. “And that is something that will not change. I hope that we can continue to be friendly with each other, because you are a good man and a good templar. Anything further, though… I cannot allow it.”

 _Cannot allow_. _Should not let_. It is all bullshit, and Carver wishes that he could tell Cullen as much. People bend the rules in the Gallows all the time. Excluding the kiss last night, Cullen has already undoubtedly broken some kind of regulation by drinking one-and-a-bit bottles of wine with Carver, his subordinate. So why does this particular rule matter so much, especially if they both feel something?

Cullen’s mind, however, seems to be set, and making any further protests will be an exercise in futility. Therefore, Carver gives a response of “Yes, ser. Have a good night, Knight-Captain” before standing up and departing from the office.

Carver previously thought that there could never be a worse feeling than what he had felt when entering Cullen’s office, but now he knows better. Not only does he remain sexually frustrated, but he now feels like he has been punched in the stomach. For what seems like the thousandth time today, he tells himself that he is being ridiculous. He has known Cullen for almost three years, but only in the past twenty-four hours has he had these thoughts about him. It shouldn’t mean anything that he drunkenly kissed his Knight-Captain once, and yet today has proven to him more than ever that it _does_ mean something. The ache in his stomach tells him that it means much more beyond his need to get laid.

He returns to his quarters, almost ready to bang his head against the wall repeatedly. That will give him nothing more than a sore head, however, and so he is going to have to find another way to deal with this. He suspects the thoughts are not going to go away, especially now that the back of his mind is currently occupied with idle thoughts of Cullen changing his mind in the most spectacular fashion and bending Carver backwards over his desk to kiss him. So what can he do?

Well. There is always one option if he wants to whine to someone who won’t judge him too harshly for thinking shameful thoughts about another man. And right now, Carver is desperate enough to convince himself that this option is a good idea.

He is going to have to talk to his brother.


	3. Chapter 3

Carver’s next free day is four days away, and the days until then pass by unbearably slowly. He tries to convince himself that whatever has come over him will have passed by then, giving him no need to speak to his brother. However, thoughts of that kiss with Cullen continue to pester him despite Cullen’s insistence that nothing further should happen. With all the times that Carver has had to douse himself in cold water to calm himself down, he is fairly certain that the all of the knights that he bunks with think that he has gone mad. Madness would be preferable to constantly thinking about his Knight-Captain in highly inappropriate contexts.

When his day off arrives, Carver leaves the Gallows and heads to Hightown, where his mother and brother now reside in the old Amell estate (the _Hawke_ estate now, he supposes). He has been to the estate several times since they have moved in, always making sure to see his mother on his days off because he knows she will worry otherwise. It has been a couple of months since he has seen Garrett, though. He is usually out when Carver visits, which suits Carver just fine. He only hopes that the one time he actually _needs_ his brother, he will be there.

When he knocks on the front door, it opens to reveal an elven woman. Carver wonders if he has the wrong house, but no, he has come here enough times to know what the house looks like.

“I’m, uh… I’m looking for Garrett,” he says. Not Hawke, as most of the city calls him, because Carver is just as much of a Hawke as he is.

The elf surveys him warily, her wide eyes resting upon the flaming sword insignia on his breastplate. “What business does a templar have with Master Hawke?”

 _Master_ Hawke. Well, that’s new. So his brother seems to have gotten himself an elven slave. How things have changed now that he has money.

Carver opens his mouth to speak, but the sound of his brother’s voice interrupts him. “It’s all right, Orana. He’s my brother.”

“As you say, master.” The elf gives a slight bow and steps aside to let Carver enter the main room of the house.

“You look well, Carver,” says Garrett. He reaches out to give Carver a friendly clap on the shoulder. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Since when do you have a slave?” Carver asks with no further greeting.

“Orana isn’t a slave.” The hard edge in Garrett’s voice indicates his offense. “She’s my housekeeper. I pay her, although she seems rather resistant to the idea. I’ve been trying to get her to stop calling me ‘Master,’ but no luck so far. She has been here for almost two weeks now. Couldn’t just leave her in the caves after Fenris ripped her old master’s heart out.”

So his brother still spends time with Fenris. Carver has never liked the brooding elf much. He had once complained to Garrett about how horribly _negative_ Fenris is about everything, to which his brother had chuckled and said “You’re one to talk.” From the sound of it, Fenris hasn’t changed his ways of getting angry and sticking his fist into people’s chests.

“So,” Garrett continues on. “What brings you here? I can’t imagine you’ve come to drag me to the Circle.”

Carver bristles in irritation. Of _course_ his brother would say something like that. Carver joining the templars has been a point of contention between them ever since Garrett found out. They don’t fight too much about it anymore, but the little comments like this remind Carver that there is still very much a wedge between them on that matter.

“I’d never--” he begins.

Garrett laughs, which only makes Carver angrier. “I’m _joking_ , baby brother. Don’t tell me the Gallows has taken away what little sense of humor you have.” As much as Carver wants to retaliate to that remark, he bites back his retort. “Anyway, if you’re looking for Mother, she’s out at the market right now. I expect she’ll be back soon.”

“I… I wanted to talk to you, actually,” Carver admits, a little sheepish.

“Oh?” Garrett’s eyebrows arch in curiosity. “Come, sit down. I’ll have Orana make us some tea.”

Carver reluctantly sits in one of the large armchairs in front of the fire while his brother calls for the housekeeper. Garrett then seats himself across from him, rubbing his bearded chin thoughtfully. Carver hates that stupid beard. He is fairly certain that Garrett has only grown it to become even more of the spitting image of their father.

“So let’s have it,” says Garrett. “What could a big, strong templar possibly have to talk about with a mage?”

Carver has not given much thought to how he is going to explain everything to his brother. Where can he start, other than with the obvious “I kissed my Knight-Captain and now I can’t stop thinking about him, even though he says nothing can happen between us”? It doesn’t help that he suspects that Garrett will laugh at anything he says.

“You can’t tell a _soul_ about this, all right?” he begins. He knows the kind of crowd his brother associates with and how quickly they spread stories. “No one at all. Not even Mother.”

“By the Maker’s solemn vow, et cetera, et cetera.” Garrett holds up his hand in a mimicry of swearing an oath. “What kind of trouble could you have possibly gotten yourself into?”

“It’s not trouble,” Carver insists, although the whole business with Cullen has definitely been troubling to him. “I kissed another man. That’s all.” His ears burn scarlet with embarrassment.

“Well _done_ , Carver.” Garrett grins broadly. “Who’s the lucky bloke? Someone at the Rose? There _are_ some pretty men there.”

“No, it wasn’t at the Rose.” Carver isn’t sure whether he likes his brother’s implication that he can only find someone willing to kiss him at a brothel. “It was…” Maker, this is embarrassing. Why did he think it would be a good idea to talk to Garrett about this? “I was in the Knight-Captain’s office, and we had a bit to drink, and…” He makes a vague gesture that conveys everything that he cannot bring himself to say.

Garrett bursts into laughter, which does not make Carver feel any better. “You and Knight-Captain Cullen? Oh, that’s a _good_ one. I almost believed you for a second.”

Carver’s hands clench against the arms of the chair. “It’s not a bloody joke! And if you’re not going to be serious about it, then I’m leaving.”

He rises from his seat, but Garrett motions for him to sit down. “Oh, don’t get all dramatic about it. You’ve poked fun at me for years for being with other men, so I think I’ve earned the right to tease you back.”

“This is different, though,” Carver protests. “I’m not, you know, _like_ that. And the Knight-Captain says that nothing further can happen, anyway.”

“So what’s the problem, then?” His brother leans forward slightly in his chair. “And for someone who’s not ‘like that’ you seem awfully disappointed that you can’t go on kissing your dear Knight-Captain.”

“You don’t--” Carver is about to say “You don’t understand,” but then he remembers the entire reason he is telling Garrett about this in the first place is because he _does_ understand. He puts his head in his hands, tugging on strands of hair in his frustration. “It’s fucking bullshit. I’ve known the Knight-Captain for all this time, and now all of a sudden there’s this _thing_ between us that he doesn’t want to pursue because it would be fraternization, and there was also this bit about passion making us lose control, I don’t really know what he meant by that, and…” He trails off. “I didn’t ask for this, Brother.”

“Nobody ever does,” says Garrett, and Carver lifts his head to look at him. “You don’t exactly get to choose who you’re attracted to. But the way I see it, you’ve got two choices.” He holds up one finger. “One, you forget that any of it ever happened and stay miserable. Two,” he holds up a second finger, “you don’t give up and let him know in no uncertain terms that you really _do_ want this to happen, consequences be damned. And after that, you just hope for the best.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Carver grumbles. Of course it’s that easy for Garrett, whose charm and good humor can get him through any situation. Carver, however, can’t charm his way out of a burlap sack. He doesn’t know how many more stumbling, awkward conversations he can endure with Cullen before he selects the first option of forgetting that their Maker-damned kiss ever happened.

“Maybe it is.” His brother gives him a smile, one part reassuring and two parts cocky. “But contrary to what you might think, I _do_ want the best for you. And I’m glad you came to me. But still.” He laughs. “My baby brother and the Knight-Captain. I can’t believe it. Didn’t you say he terrified you when we met him while investigating about those missing recruits a few years back?”

“ _Brother_ ,” Carver groans in irritation. That was a long time ago. He didn’t _know_ Cullen back then, not like how he knows him now.

“Is he any good at kissing?” Garrett continues on, ignoring him. “He’s not bad to look at. Not that _I_ would ever go after him, but I can’t say I haven’t been curious.”

Carver buries his head in his hands. “For the love of the Maker,” he mutters.

The arrival of Orana with the tea saves him from having to give any other response. He accepts a cup with an automatic word of thanks.

“You know, I don’t ask you about _your_ love life,” he says to Garrett after Orana has left.

Garrett sips his tea. “Only because whenever I say anything you put your hands over your ears and go ‘Not listening.’ I _could_ tell you. I could tell you a lot, actually.” He smirks.

“Well, I don’t want to hear about it,” replies Carver, trying not to sound too sullen.

He takes a drink from his cup. The tea tastes different from what his mother makes for him. When he was younger she used to put extra honey in his tea, and even though he is now a grown man he tries not to be too ashamed of liking a little extra sweetness. The tea the Orana has made is more flavorless than what he is used to. He drinks it anyway, not wanting to appear rude.

“How’s templaring, then?” Garrett asks. “Other than swapping saliva with your Knight-Captain, that is. I’m sure everything else about the job is dreadfully dull compared to that.”

“I do my duties,” is all Carver says on that subject. He doesn’t like telling Garrett about what he has to do to the mages. Granted, most of it isn’t _that_ terrible, mostly ensuring that they stay in line and silencing the magic of those who act out. Occasionally he has to go out into the city to search for apostates, which is less fun because in the back of his mind he always fears that one day he will have to arrest his brother. The worst, though, are the times that he has had to witness a Harrowing gone wrong, and the nightmares of the demon-possessed mages being ruthlessly slain haunt him for a long time.

Before Garrett can say anything, the front door opens. Carver turns around in his chair to see that his mother has returned home. He sets down his half-drunk cup of tea and rises from his seat.

“Carver!” she exclaims once she has noticed his presence. She walks over to meet him, and he allows her to kiss his cheek in greeting. “I didn’t know you would be here.”

“It’s good to see you, Mother,” he says.

His mother has remained the same as always whenever he returns home to see her, and if anything she has become even happier upon taking up residence in her childhood home. He supposes now that his brother has hired a housekeeper, she has less to do. She obviously continues to do some of the work necessary to maintain the household, though, judging by the basket of vegetables fresh from the market that she has brought into the house.

“Guess what, Mother?” Garrett has a shit-eating grin on his face that Carver does not like one bit. “Carver’s got himself a _suitor_.”

“I do _not_ ,” Carver retorts. Of _course_ Garrett is going to go back on his promise not to tell their mother about everything that Carver has admitted to him. He wishes that he could punch that grin right off his brother’s face.

“And it’s a very pretty suitor too,” Garrett continues.

“That’s wonderful, darling.” His mother beams with happiness. “What’s her name?”

Garrett opens his mouth to say something, but Carver elbows him sharply in the ribs to shut him up. In retaliation, his brother swats him on the back of his head. From the brief physical contact, Carver can feel the thrum of magic under Garrett’s skin. He’d never been aware of it until after he started taking lyrium upon becoming a fully-fledged templar. The aura of Garrett’s magic is scattered and unrefined, much like some of the young apprentices in the Circle, but it contains so much more raw power. Carver would be afraid of it, except this is his _brother_ , and he has rarely had any reason to fear his brother’s magic.

“Yes, it’s no fun when you’re the one under pressure, is it?” Garrett says. “You’ll have to forgive him, Mother. He’s in _love_.”

“That’s it. I’m leaving,” declares Carver, stalking past his mother toward the door. He suspects that Garrett will only reveal something incriminating while he is present, not wanting to miss out on his reaction.

“Oh, darling, won’t you at least stay and eat with us?” his mother pleads, catching up to him and touching him on the arm. “I have a chicken and vegetable stew cooking.”

“Fine,” Carver relents. It is nearly impossible for him to resist a home-cooked meal, and his mother is well aware of this. He turns to scowl at Garrett, who is still grinning. “Shouldn’t you be out killing cave spiders or something, anyway?”

“That was yesterday.” His brother laughs. “Today is ‘bother my baby brother who I don’t get to see nearly enough anymore.’”

Deciding not to dignify this with a response, Carver follows his mother into the kitchen. She lays the vegetables that she has purchased on the table and then retrieves a knife and cutting board to begin chopping them. Carver does not offer to help. She seems to have everything under control, and he is terrible at kitchen-y things anyway.

“You look tired, darling,” she notes. “Have you not been sleeping well?”

“Not really,” admits Carver. Sleeping is rather difficult when he fears that he is going to fall into shockingly erotic dreams about Cullen.

“Is what Garrett was saying true?” his mother asks. “Have you been courting someone? That kind of thing sometimes lends itself to sleepless nights.”

She gives him a rather knowing smile. Whenever she makes comments like this, Carver wonders if Garrett has had too much of an influence on her. Then he remembers that his brother has the exact same sense of humor as their father did, which explains a lot.

“No,” Carver replies. It’s not a lie, because he’s _not_ courting Cullen. The idea is completely ridiculous. “He’s talking out of his arse.”

“It _would_ be nice if you could find someone, though.” His mother scoops up the carrots that she has been chopping up and carries them over to put them in the pot that sits on the fire. She stirs the pot’s contents a few times before wiping her hands on a nearby rag and returning to the table. “I’ve been trying to have respectable ladies over for dinner as a hint to your brother, but he won’t go for any of them. Especially not since he’s taken up with that elf.”

“What elf?” inquires Carver. Even though he couldn’t care less about his brother’s love life, he will take any leverage over him that he can get.

“The one with the markings.” His mother gestures vaguely. “Fenris, I think his name is?”

“Garrett is bedding _Fenris_?” The image of his always-joking brother with perpetually-scowling Fenris doesn’t mesh very well. What does Garrett even see in him? More importantly, what does Fenris see in Garrett? Last Carver knew, Fenris hated all mages out of principle.

“You’d have to ask him about it, darling. All I know is that they spent an entire evening holed up in his bedroom, oh, I think it was a couple of weeks ago.” The way his mother’s eyes sparkle with amusement, however, indicates that she _does_ have a good idea about what is going on between them. “But you’re certain you don’t have anybody? You’re such a handsome boy. It would be a terrible waste.” She reaches up to pat his cheek fondly.

“I didn’t join the templars to fall in love,” Carver grumbles. “It’s not exactly ideal to have someone outside the Gallows who you can only see a couple of times a month. And falling in love with someone _at_ the Gallows isn’t allowed either.” And that just hurts him more, remembering Cullen’s words on the subject.

“Well, I suppose you’re still young.” His mother starts peeling the potatoes. “And Garrett is the firstborn, so I’m more concerned about him finding someone. But I want you to be happy too.”

“I _am_ happy,” he says, but it’s a lie. Because he _could_ have someone, if only Cullen could get over himself and realize that he should give into whatever exists between them, no matter what the rules say.

“That’s good to hear.” His mother gives him a gentle smile, which makes him feel worse.

He remains with her in the kitchen while she prepares their lunch, if only to avoid his brother. Once they are all seated together eating, he expects Garrett to continue teasing him about Cullen, but clearly he has decided to let the subject drop. Instead, Garrett tells some story that involves a recent night at the Hanged Man with his friends. Carver only half-listens, his thoughts instead inevitably turning to Cullen. Should he take his brother’s advice and continue to press for something to happen between them? If it doesn’t work out, he runs the risk of making the situation even worse than it is now, because Cullen likely doesn’t want to be pestered about it again. If he _does_  convince Cullen, though… Well, he’ll be forever in his brother’s debt, but at least he will be happy.

In the end, Carver decides to leave that decision for later. He instead lets himself enjoy spending time with his family, especially now that Garrett has cut down on his teasing for now. When it comes time for him to leave, his brother beckons him over to the stairway, away from their mother’s earshot.

“In case things end up working out with you and your Knight-Captain,” he says, “I have something I want to give you.”

“Okay?” Carver can’t think of anything that Garrett can give to him that will help, other than his advice.

“Come upstairs.” He tugs on Carver’s arm like they are children again.

Carver follows him up the stairs. He has only been to the upstairs of the estate on one prior occasion, when his mother had given him a tour of the place on his first visit. When Garrett brings him into his bedroom, the space is completely unfamiliar to Carver. As far as he can tell, it is no different from a standard bedroom in a house of this size. The only thing that marks it as being his brother’s is the family dog curled up on the rug, asleep.

Garrett walks over to the drawers beside his bed and rummages around in them until he finds what he is searching for. The object is too small for Carver to see what it is.

“Here.” Garrett pushes the object into Carver’s hand. It turns out to be a vial filled with some kind of viscous fluid. “I would tell you to go to Anders to get some for yourself, but I don’t think he’d take very kindly to a templar coming to his clinic, even if it’s just you.”

Carver studies the vial in utter bewilderment. He unscrews the top, sniffing its contents hesitantly. It smells vaguely herbal.

“What’s it for?” he asks.

“Oh, my sweet baby brother.” Garrett chuckles, putting an arm around him. “So innocent in the matters of sex between men.”

Carver splutters. “ _What_?”

“Well, you know.” His brother sounds like he is enjoying this immensely. “Being with a man is a bit different from being with a woman. Things aren’t as, well, slippery. So sometimes you need a little help to get things to go in.” He taps the vial that Carver holds in his hand.

“What do you--” Carver begins, but then everything falls into place. “Oh, _Maker_. I didn’t need to know that.”

“Don’t sound so disgusted,” says Garrett. “Sure, there are plenty of other things that you and your Knight-Captain can do. But I don’t want you to be unprepared if the occasion ever presents itself.”

Carver stores the vial away in the pockets of his robes. “Well, er. Thanks,” he replies, trying to sound as dignified as he can in spite of his embarrassment.

“I’m just looking out for you.” His brother ruffles his hair affectionately. Carver pulls away from him, scowling. “Anyway. I hope we see each other the next time you visit. I miss you sometimes, you know.”

“I miss you too, Brother,” Carver admits. Even if Garrett is a complete pain in his arse most of the time, he is still family, and that has to count for something.

Garrett claps him on the shoulder. “So. Be well. And do try to enjoy yourself every once in a while.” Carver doesn’t need his brother’s suggestive eyebrow waggle to understand the hidden meaning of his words.

“Goodbye, Brother,” he says, and when he leaves the house, he manages to feel marginally better than he did when he walked in.


	4. Chapter 4

After his day off, Carver has a routine schedule change, which replaces his free evenings with duties in the apprentice quarters. Ordinarily he would be disappointed that he has lost the time that he often spends with Cullen, but Carver has continued to avoid him since their most recent conversation. Despite his brother’s advice, he remains more uncertain than ever as to what he is going to do about Cullen. Carver’s thoughts about him certainly haven’t disappeared, and if anything the continuation of his mental fixation proves that whatever he feels for Cullen is much more than a passing fantasy.

He keeps the vial that Garrett has given him too, hidden away among his belongings. He tries not to think about it too much, because thinking about what that vial implies is a good way for him to flush scarlet and lose focus on what he is doing. He also has to make sure that it doesn’t get confused with the vials that contain his lyrium rations. A mix-up regarding the contents would be _extremely_ awkward either way.

Carver’s attempts to avoid Cullen, however, eventually become thwarted one morning almost a week after his visit to Garrett. He is hurrying to the dining hall for breakfast as usual when he is approached by one of the Tranquil. When he had first come the Gallows, the Tranquil had freaked Carver out a little, with their monotone voices and expressionless faces. Now he just pities them, although he isn’t sure whether he is supposed to.

“Ser Carver,” the Tranquil says. “Knight-Captain Cullen wishes for you to join him in his quarters for breakfast.”

“Right now?” Carver asks. He is already late as it is. Curse his now-regular morning distractions.

“He wishes it without delay.” The Tranquil remains straight-faced because, well, it’s not like she can show any other emotion.

“Right. Thanks for telling me.”

Carver promptly heads toward Cullen’s office. He dreads having to interact with him after the nature of their last conversation, but curiosity floods him regarding why Cullen wants to have breakfast with him, of all things. Surely it could have waited until a more normal hour that does not involve something as personal as sharing a meal with him.

Once Carver has arrived outside the office, he knocks on the door even though Cullen is expecting his arrival. The distant sound of Cullen’s response of “Come in” prompts him to open the door. Cullen is not at his desk as usual, however. Instead, the door to his personal quarters beyond his office is open.

Carver taps on the doorframe, feeling like an intruder even though he has been invited inside. “Knight-Captain?” he says hesitantly.

“Ser Carver. You are free to come in.”

With a growing sense of trepidation, Carver enters Cullen’s quarters. He has never been beyond his office before, and being in the place where the Knight-Captain sleeps seems strangely intimate. The room is as sparse as the ordinary templars’ quarters. The only difference is that it is a little more furnished, with a table and two chairs in the middle of the room and a full-sized bed rather than the uncomfortable bunks that are standard for the knights and recruits.

“Good morning,” Cullen greets him. He wears only his robe, having not put on his armor yet. Carver has never seen him unarmored before. He tries not to stare too much, no matter how much of an unusual sight it is.

“Good morning, ser,” replies Carver. He salutes. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Please, join me.” Cullen gestures to the two breakfast plates that have been set on the table.

They both sit. Remembering his manners, Carver waits for Cullen to lift up his knife and fork and take the first bite of his meal before he begins to eat as well. The quality of food is much better than what is served in the dining hall. The bread is almost fresh, and the sausages actually taste real and not like some kind of mystery meat masquerading as sausage. A few clusters of berries lie on each plate as well. It is such a Fereldan choice that Carver feels a pang of homesickness for Lothering.

“You have been avoiding me,” Cullen says, breaking the silence that has fallen between them as they eat. He lays down his fork and surveys Carver intently.

“I’ve been busy, ser.” Carver doubts his evasive response is very convincing. He puts a bite of sausage in his mouth, avoiding Cullen’s eyes.

“As have I.” Cullen wipes his mouth with his napkin. Carver tries not to look at his lips, but he cannot resist. Not when he can remember how good it felt to kiss them. “But I have also been… distracted.”

“By what, ser?” It _can’t_ be anything to do with him. Cullen has made it quite clear that the potential for distraction is one of the primary reasons why they should not allow anything further to occur between them.

Cullen lifts up his fork once again. He spears a few berries onto it and brings it to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. “Perhaps I have been wrong in some of the things that I have told you. About how certain… certain _things_ that have happened between us cannot continue because they would be a distraction from our duties. And yet.” He gives a rueful laugh. “The thoughts about what could have been have made themselves an even bigger distraction.”

Well. So much for Carver thinking that Cullen’s “distractions” do not refer to him. “So what are you saying, ser?” he asks.

“I still have reservations about us.” Cullen shifts nervously in his seat at the word “us.” Is the Knight-Captain _fidgeting_? Carver would have never believed that to be possible. “A single kiss under the influence of alcohol isn’t the same as repeatedly acting on some kind of mutual desire.”

“Repeatedly acting? It would be… repeated?” Carver doesn’t want to accidentally misinterpret anything that Cullen says. It would be terrible for him to get his hopes up over a misunderstanding.

Cullen lays down his fork once more. He scrubs a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath out. “Despite the many reasons why I try to convince myself that I should not act on my feelings, and all the times that I have attempted to steel myself against temptation, I find it impossible to stop thinking about you, Ser Carver-- _Carver_. It would be an enormous risk to take. If the Knight-Commander were to find out, I would no doubt lose my position, or worse. But--if you will permit it--I would like to pursue whatever this is between us.”

Carver can only gape at him. “But last time you were so insistent that nothing should happen.”

“I know. And that was foolish. Or perhaps _this_ is what is foolish. But it doesn’t matter. If I am a fool, I should only hope that you would be one along with me.”

“Well, good,” says Carver. “Because I kind of think you’re brilliant. And not just in a ‘you’re the Knight-Captain’ kind of way.” He laughs nervously. “And I _do_ want this. More than anything.”

“Then we have reached an agreement.” The smile that crosses Cullen’s lips is unguarded, the kind of expression that Carver has only seen from him when they had been drinking together. “And--yes. It would make me happy too.” He reaches a hand across the table, brushing his fingers against the rough skin of Carver’s hand. The touch sends Carver’s heart leaping into his throat. “It has been a long time since I have felt like this.”

He stands up, walking around the side of the table to where Carver sits. Carver rises from his seat as well, and before he can entirely process what is happening, Cullen is kissing him fiercely. Carver lets out a quiet murmur of surprise before giving in to the kiss’s intensity. Cullen tastes like breakfast and the slightly sour tang of morning breath, but Carver doesn’t care, because this is happening and it is _real_.

When they break apart, Carver needs a moment to catch his breath, and he can hear the soft sound of Cullen’s breathing as well. Cullen’s hand curls around the back of Carver’s neck, tangling his fingers in the dark strands of hair. He touches his forehead to Carver’s. The quiet moment of intimacy is almost as electrifying as the kiss itself.

“That was…” Carver begins, unsure of exactly how to convey how badly he has wanted something like this to happen ever since their first kiss almost two weeks ago.

“It was… really nice.” The sides of Cullen’s mouth curl up into a smile once more. Carver wants so much to kiss those lips again.

“Yeah.” Their voices are tamped down to mere whispers. The moment does not require anything louder.

Whatever spell of bliss has fallen between them breaks with the sound of the bell in the courtyard, which signifies the end of breakfast and summons the templars to their morning posts. They step away from each other, and Carver runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to un-muss it.

“I have to go,” he says, and he regrets these words more than ever. “I have to be at the training yard to help out with the recruits.”

“Will you come back later this evening, then?” Cullen asks. “As, ah… As enjoyable as this moment was, it was a little too short, don’t you think?”

“I have duties in the apprentice quarters tonight, ser.” Not that he would be missed. All he has to do is stand there and look intimidating.

“I will find someone to cover for you,” says Cullen. “You _did_ say that you have been busy lately. I daresay you could use some time to relax.”

“Are you trying to abuse your authority?” Carver would have never thought Cullen would enjoy something like that, considering how conscious he is of the difference in authority between them.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think that the Knight-Captain is actually _blushing_. Surely those tinges of pink on his cheeks arise from something other than his embarrassment. “Nobody has to know the real reason behind it,” Cullen replies.

“I could say I’m sick,” Carver offers helpfully. “Fake a cough or something. Can’t look after the mages when I’ve got a cough.”

A slight smile crosses Cullen’s lips. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I will see you tonight, then?”

“Yeah.” Carver gives a decisive nod. “Thank you for breakfast, Knight-Captain. And, well, everything else.”

“Likewise.” Cullen reaches out to run a hand along Carver’s jawline. “This was… It was more than anything I could have ever asked for. And I am thankful.”

They share a brief final kiss in farewell. When Carver departs from Cullen’s quarters, he feels like he is walking on air, and not even a day of dull duties ahead of him can bring him down.

* * *

Evening falls, and Carver returns to Cullen’s office at the appointed time. The door is already open, which surprises him. He peers inside to see that Cullen is talking to Ser Alrik. Carver has not had very much interaction with the older templar, but the stories that he has heard about Alrik harassing mages and heavily promoting the Rite of Tranquility make him wary. Not wanting to interrupt, Carver stands outside the office unnoticed.

“I have already made my opinion on this matter very clear,” Cullen is saying. “Your extremism will not be tolerated here, and if I hear any further rumors, I _will_ take it up personally with the Knight-Commander.”

“You of all people should understand, ser,” Alrik replies. “I’ve heard that you were at the Fereldan Circle when it was overrun. Imagine how many lives could have been saved if those mages were all Tranquil. There would have been no blood magic, no abominations. Think of how much safer Kirkwall would be. Or all of Thedas, for that matter.”

“We will _not_ speak of that.” Cullen’s voice is low and angry. “I will not support your so-called solution. It is our duty as templars to ensure that maleficarum are swiftly dealt with. If we do that, we will not require any acts of extremism. You are wasting your time, Ser Alrik. Goodbye.”

Alrik grumbles something inaudible in response and storms out of the office. Carver mentally counts to five to let the tension dissipate before he enters the office. He lets the sound of his footsteps alert Cullen to his presence.

“Ser Carver.” Cullen lifts his head from where he has been resting it in his hands in a posture of frustration. “I am--how much did you hear?”

“Only the end, ser,” replies Carver. “And I agree with you,” he adds, although he is unsure of whether it is his place to make his opinion known. “I don’t think making all the mages Tranquil will solve anything.” Because that would mean making his brother Tranquil, and the thought of seeing Garrett without his standard grins and laughter makes Carver feel sick.

“I am glad that you realize how flawed the idea is. In theory, using Tranquility to prevent certain mages from delving into blood magic is a reasonable course of action, but unfortunately _any_ mage has the potential to do so. Although it would lessen the fear of blood magic infecting a Circle, I am afraid that the Rite of Tranquility will become even more of a punishment rather than a preventative measure if Ser Alrik has his way. And with the rumors of what he has done to some of the mages here…” Cullen rubs a hand across his forehead. “But we are not here to discuss business, are we?”

He rises from his chair and walks around the side of the desk. Carver shuts the door behind him before closing the distance between them. Cullen brings a hand to rest on Carver’s hip against the plate of his armor as their lips meet. Carver reaches out blindly to the nearest corner of the desk to keep himself upright as the kiss deepens. In the process, he upends something that feels very much like a bottle of ink. Unless Cullen keeps other small containers of liquid on his desk, this fact is confirmed when messy dampness spreads across his hand before he jerks it away.

“Shit,” he mutters, breaking the kiss. He inspects his hand. Black blotches of ink stain it, and the rest of the contents of the bottle spread across the corner of Cullen’s desk, dripping onto the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m a blighted idiot.”

Cullen, to his relief, gives a slight chuckle. “If you wanted a dramatic sweep-off of all the contents of my desk, you should have just asked.”

He steps away from Carver, going inside his quarters. He comes out with a couple of damp old handkerchiefs and hands one of them to Carver, who has been unsuccessfully trying to remove the ink from his hand by wetting his clean fingers with saliva and rubbing at the blackened spots.

Carver cleans his hands as best as he can while Cullen mops up the ink that has spilled onto his desk. So much for their evening having a good start--but he supposes that worse things could have happened. At least the ink hasn’t reached the various documents and memos that Cullen has piled on his desk.

After everything has been somewhat cleaned up, their mouths find their way to each other’s once more. They ensure that they stay far away from the desk this time. Carver remembers how strangely _good_ it had felt when Cullen had pressed him up against the wall when they had first kissed. He wonders whether he should communicate that he kind of wants this to happen again or instead let things play out as they will.

He does not need to consider the matter for much longer. Cullen gently pushes him back against the wall, and Carver’s hands remain firmly planted on Cullen’s back. Cullen takes his lips away from Carver’s mouth, nuzzling a stubbled cheek against his chin before dipping his mouth downward to trace a path down his neck. Carver presses his fingers harder against Cullen’s back with a soft moan, wishing that his fingernails were scraping up against skin instead of hard armor. What does Cullen sound like when he moans, he wonders? He hasn’t had the opportunity to have that happen yet. Normally he would push aside such thoughts as being shameful, but it’s too late to call anything shameful when he has the Knight-Captain’s lips on his neck.

“You better not be leaving a mark,” he says.

“Would that embarrass you?” Cullen brushes his lips gently against the spot he has been sucking on. Carver inhales a sharp breath, pressing his nose into Cullen’s hair. Cullen smells like soap, and a little bit of sweat, and the slightest whiff of lyrium.

“Probably not,” Carver admits. Having a mark will remind him that what is happening between them is real, not a daydream or fantasy. Nobody else has to know who he has gotten it from, anyway.

Cullen pulls away from him. He keeps a hand pressed up against Carver’s breastplate, tracing the outline of the flaming sword that adorns it. “I feel like we should establish how we’re going to proceed from here,” he says.

“Proceed?” Carver isn’t sure what he means. Surely the next logical step is to mess around in a way that they had not been able to do during the night with the while. Perhaps they will talk a little more too. Carver had liked listening to the stories that Cullen had told when they had been drinking, especially when it led to reminiscing about Ferelden.

“If you’d like to continue on with…” Cullen hesitates. “Engagements of a physical nature. Or if you’d rather proceed more slowly.”

“I wouldn’t mind messing around a bit,” replies Carver in straightforward response. “I’ve, uh. Thought about it. A lot. It would be nice. If that’s okay with you.”

“I have no objections.” Cullen smiles, and Carver can see the joy in his eyes. “Although I must ask. Have you ever been with another man before?”

“No,” Carver confesses. “What about you?”

“I’m not familiar with it either.” Cullen’s hands travel upward to rest on Carver’s shoulders. “And if we’re being entirely honest, I’m probably less experienced than you are in these matters in general.”

As much as Carver likes to think that he is experienced with women, he has actually only been with a handful of them, and most of them have been whores. If Cullen’s estimated comparison of his sexual experience to Carver’s holds true, then Cullen must be practically virginal. It doesn’t matter, though. What matters is that it will be a learning experience for both of them, although Carver supposes he may have a slight edge from hearing stories (however reluctantly) from his brother about being with another man.

“I can hardly remember how many months it’s been since I’ve had someone,” Carver says. “So I think we both need this.”

He lets his hands slide downward to rest against the small of Cullen’s back. Their lips meet again, and in a moment of daring Carver switches their positioning so that he has Cullen pinned against the wall. He has never had a superior in such a compromising position since sparring as a recruit. One hand braces against the stone surface as they continue the kiss, their bodies pressed so close together that Carver feels the warmth coming from Cullen’s body.

Remembering what Cullen had been about to do before stopping on the night that they had first kissed, Carver brings a hand down to the skirt of Cullen’s robe, pushing through the folds of fabric to reach his trousers. He runs a finger along the front of Cullen’s trousers, and Cullen lets out a quiet, satisfied exhale into Carver’s mouth.

Carver is starting to think that a templar’s attire is specifically designed to hinder quick encounters like this, what with all of its layers. Breaking their kiss so that he can concentrate, he bunches up the fabric of the robe to get it out of the way. He undoes Cullen’s belt and fumbles with the buttons on his trousers. The slight twitch of Cullen’s half-hard cock beneath his hand brings him a surge of warmth that pools in his belly and groin.

Before he can proceed any further, a knock sounds against the door. Carver promptly pulls his hand out from under Cullen’s robe. The sound of displeasure that Cullen makes is almost comical. At least Carver knows from his own unfortunate experiences that templar robes are good at concealing arousal.

“Come in,” Cullen calls to whomever has knocked on the door as he straightens out the skirt of his robe. He does not bother to hide his irritation.

In an act of self-preservation, Carver ducks behind the desk, wriggling himself beneath it as best as he can. He immediately regrets this choice, as he is not exactly a small person, especially with his armor on. It isn’t necessary for him to hide, either, since he has been in Cullen’s office at this hour many times before. He automatically feels guilty, however, due to the nature of what has been interrupted.

“Knight-Captain.” The voice belongs to a woman, and the dull tone of it indicates that she is one of the Tranquil. “The Knight-Commander wishes you to review the schedule of upcoming Harrowings as soon as possible.”

Carver concludes that this must be the Knight-Commander’s personal assistant. He has never properly met her, but he has seen her around the Gallows and heard the stories about how the Knight-Commander had specifically requested a Tranquil assistant to intimidate the mages and ensure maximum efficiency..

“Yes, Elsa, thank you,” replies Cullen. “I will send it back to her as soon as I am finished.”

The door closes, indicating Elsa’s departure. Wincing slightly from the uncomfortable position that he has been in, Carver comes out from under the desk.

“There are Harrowings coming up?” he asks as Cullen walks over to the desk holding the sheet of paper that he he has received.

“Several of them, from the looks of it.” Cullen sits down at his desk, reading the paper’s contents. “I’m not surprised. It has been a while since we had one.”

The Harrowings are deliberately irregular in their occurrences so that the apprentices will not anticipate them. The only constant factor is that they usually occur soon after an apprentice comes of age, providing the senior enchanters consider them to be ready, and that the older apostates captured and brought to the Circle are often Harrowed soon after their arrival. Usually, the only forewarning that Carver has of a Harrowing is when he looks at his schedule and learns that he has been appointed to stand as witness to one.

“I know I said that this isn’t a time for business,” Cullen continues on. “But the Knight-Commander will have my head if I don’t take care of this right away. In the meantime, if you’d like to, ah…” He makes a vague up and down gesture in Carver’s direction. “We might be more comfortable later if we’re out of our armor. So. If you want to take care of that.”

It is a bold proposition coming from Cullen. There is a definite lack of intimacy that comes from both of them being in their armor, however, and so Carver does not object.

He works on undoing the buckles and restraints of his armor. Unsure of what to do with the pieces as they come off, he leaves them in a pile on the floor of the office. By the time he has removed his breastplate, Cullen has finished reviewing the document and has given his required signature.

“I’ll put this in the hands of someone who will ensure that it gets to the Knight-Commander,” Cullen says, turning to address Carver as he walks toward the door. “But after that, I am yours.”

 _Yours_. Carver likes the sound of that. “I’ll wait here, ser.” The “ser” comes automatically, even though he doubts he has to be respectful in his address after having had his hand up Cullen’s robe.

It is inevitably awkward for him to be alone in Cullen’s office. His brother would have probably done something ridiculous to surprise Cullen when he comes back, like spreading himself suggestively across the desk, perhaps holding a rose between his teeth. Carver is not his brother, however. Even if he was, it’s not like there are any roses in the office in the first place. Therefore, Carver takes a seat in the chair in front of the desk, waiting patiently and trying to ignore the desire that has not yet left him.

Cullen soon returns, closing the door behind him. “Hopefully that will be our only distraction of the night,” he says. “If you’d like to help me get out of my armor, it would go a lot quicker.”

The act of aiding Cullen in the removal of his armor is strangely intimate. Arousing, too, but anything that involves touching Cullen at this point will turn Carver on. Cullen does not stop at the removal of his armor and takes off his robe as well, leaving him in only the shirt and trousers that he wears underneath. The top button of his trousers remains unbuttoned from Carver’s earlier actions.

“You want to continue where we left off?” Carver asks.

“Yes, that would be--”

Before Cullen can finish, Carver has his hands busy with finishing the job of undoing Cullen’s trousers. With only the slightest amount of trepidation that makes him question what he is about to do, he puts his hand down the front of Cullen’s now-open trousers and under his smallclothes.

A sharp gasp hitches Cullen’s breath when Carver touches him. Carver can’t see what he is doing, and so he tugs Cullen’s trousers down a little so that his cock comes into view. Pushing past his automatic instinct that it would be rude to look, Carver brings his eyes downward, and… Well, it’s definitely not disappointing. Far from it, in fact.

He curls his hand around Cullen’s cock and strokes it, coaxing it to full hardness. Although Carver has never done this to another man before, he has enough experiences in doing it to himself and having women do it to him that he feels confident in his actions. When he gently rubs a thumb across the sensitive tip, the sound the Cullen makes is exquisite. Carver grins in satisfaction. So it turns out he _can_ make Cullen moan.

“If you keep doing things like that…” Cullen’s voice breaks off into another heavy breath. “I doubt I’m going to last much longer.”

Carver’s own trousers are becoming uncomfortably tight against his own arousal, and he longs to have Cullen touch him in the same way. “We could find a way to do it, you know, together,” he suggests. “To save time in case there’s another interruption.”

“Let’s hope that’s not the case.” Cullen chuckles. “But… Yes. That would be a good idea. Can I…?” He gestures toward Carver’s trousers.

Carver pulls off his robe and lets Cullen undo his trousers and pull down his smallclothes to expose his own cock. The feeling of Cullen’s hand rubbing against it sends a shockwave that begins in his groin before shooting throughout his entire body. He has done this with his own hand countless times over the past couple of weeks, wondering what it would feel like for Cullen to do the same to him, but no fantasy can compare to the real thing. He grips onto Cullen’s shoulder with one hand to steady himself as the other seeks out Cullen’s cock once more.

They move their hands in tandem, stroking each other and rubbing their cocks together for added friction. The only sounds between them is the rough sound of their breathing. Carver closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Cullen’s as the tension in his body increases until he is about ready to burst. Cullen ends up climaxing first, though, spilling himself into Carver’s hand with a quiet moan. It isn’t long until Carver comes as well, and _Maker_ , that was better than he could have ever imagined.

Neither of them move for a little while, letting their breathing slow. Cullen lets one of his hands settle at the back of Carver’s neck, his fingers caressing against his skin. The tender motion makes Carver realize more than ever that yes, he just did _that_ with his Knight-Captain, and it had been wonderful.

“We should clean up,” Cullen says. “Come into my quarters. It will be easier.”

They break apart, and Carver follows Cullen through the door into his bedroom. He sits down at the table, careful not to let his hand still sticky with Cullen’s come brush up against anything. Cullen hands him a damp cloth, and Carver wipes himself clean. He then tucks himself back into his trousers, watching Cullen as he does the same.

“That was…” Carver begins, unable to articulate his thoughts into actual words.

“It was exactly what I needed.” Cullen reaches a hand out to Carver to take the now-dirtied cloth from him. “I… hope it was the same for you?”

“Yeah,” says Carver. “It was brilliant.”

Cullen sets the cloths aside, and Carver rises from his seat to move closer to him. When their lips touch, everything is perfect. For now, Carver cannot ask for much else.


	5. Chapter 5

The first of the Harrowings occurs two days after Cullen receives the schedule. Luckily, Carver is not appointed to witness the first one, but when the second one comes three days later, he receives notice that he is to report to the Harrowing chamber to stand guard. The worst part, however, is when he discovers that a red dot has been placed next to his name. Every templar knows what that means: he has been randomly designated as the one to kill the mage if the Harrowing is failed.

Carver has been on duty during a Harrowing numerous times throughout his time as a templar, but this is only the fourth time he has been the one responsible for the mage’s fate. He has only had to kill once, almost a year ago now. As much as he tries to convince himself that it was necessary, that the apprentice had become unquestionably possessed, the face of the dark-haired girl continues to haunt him. He only wishes that there could be another way to do Harrowings that won’t end in the potential brutal slaughter of the apprentice. What if Bethany had ended up in the Circle, or Garrett? He wouldn’t want them to face that possibility. He keeps these thoughts to himself, however, because he knows that Cullen will think differently.

The apprentice this time is named Bevan, an auburn-haired boy not much older than eighteen. He seems so young to Carver, until he remembers that he himself had been barely eighteen when he had fought at Ostagar. An inescapably tense atmosphere fills the Harrowing chamber as the presiding senior enchanter administers the ritual lyrium to Bevan. After he has successfully entered the Fade, the long wait begins. Apprentices are usually given an hour to defeat the demon that they face, but Carver has never yet witnessed a Harrowing in which the apprentice has taken longer than the appointed time. The hourglass in the room shows the passage of time anyway, and Carver keeps one eye on the sand in the glass and one eye on Bevan. He determinedly does _not_ look at Cullen, who stands on Knight-Commander Meredith’s right side as they observe the ritual. Carver does not need that kind of distraction right now, even though they have done some very distraction-worthy things together lately.

When the hourglass has depleted halfway and Carver is starting to sweat under his helmet, Bevan opens his eyes. Carver watches him closely. At first, he thinks that Bevan is all right, that he has passed, but then Bevan’s eyes glow crimson, his body twitching horribly. Carver’s heart leaps into his throat, but he cannot hesitate. Even the slightest pause before carrying out his duty will lead to not only his own death, but the death of everyone else in the room. Carver therefore draws his sword and steps forward.

He runs his sword through Bevan’s possessed body, cutting through flesh and bone and organs. The cut is not clean. Bevan writhes and screams from the pain, blood spurting from the place where the sword has entered him. Carver pulls his sword out of Bevan’s body, and the apprentice slumps forward, his screams dying away into silence.

And just like that, the ritual is over. The templars are dismissed, and Carver’s hands tremble as he sheathes his bloodied sword. Bile rises up in his throat when he sees the blood that stains his gauntlets. He tries his best to force it down. It’s not like he has never killed someone before--he had done so even before becoming a templar. He’d been in the Fereldan army, for Andraste’s sake. Running his sword through someone shouldn’t make him feel ill anymore--and yet it does, just as it had done last time he’d had to do this.

Carver makes it into the hallway before he rips off his helmet, leans forward, and spills the contents of his stomach onto the stone floor. He coughs, his body shaking. He can’t even wipe his mouth because of his blood-covered gauntlets. The sight of blood and the memory of his sword striking against bone makes him vomit again.

A hand touches his back, rubbing gently to soothe him as he continues to cough and retch. “It’s all right,” comes the sound of Cullen’s voice from behind him. “Let it out.”

After Carver’s stomach has settled itself, he straightens up and turns to face Cullen. “Sorry, ser,” he says. “You probably don’t think I’m much of a templar. Getting sick from killing an abomination.”

Except Bevan hadn’t _felt_ like an abomination, even though he looked and acted like one. Although he hadn’t known Bevan personally, he remembers him from his duties in the apprentice quarters. The boy had always been laughing and joking. Like Garrett, Carver realizes, and now he feels even sicker. Is he destined to see his family in every apprentice-turned-abomination that he has to kill? Who will be next, someone who reminds him of his father? Carver doesn’t even want to _think_ about that.

“Come with me,” Cullen tells him. “You should get your armor cleaned. We’ll go to my quarters.”

Carver follows him without saying anything. His mouth tastes like vomit, and he hopes that Cullen will have something in his quarters to wash away the taste. As they walk, he feels the eyes of everyone looking upon him and his bloodied armor. The templars will know that there was another failed Harrowing, and they will therefore have to keep an extra eye on the mages for the next day or two. The mages always get restless and angry after a Harrowing goes wrong, quietly protesting the potential brutality of the ritual. But they can’t blame the templars, can they? It’s not the fault of the templars if the apprentice is not ready and succumbs to the demon’s temptation. At least that is what Carver tries to convince himself. How will he be able to be around the apprentices that he has to stand guard over tonight, though? Some of the other apprentices will want to know what happened to Bevan, and how can Carver face them when he was the one to kill him? Maker, everything about this situation is such utter bullshit.

When they reach Cullen’s office, Carver rips off his gauntlets and tries to take off the rest of his armor. His hands shake so much that Cullen has to help him carefully remove the bloodied pieces. The skirt of Carver’s robe has drops of blood scattered across it as well, and so that comes off too. Everything goes into a pile on the floor, and Carver sinks down into the chair in front of Cullen’s desk, leaning forward and bracing his hands against his knees. He closes his eyes, trying to center himself, but the image of his sword going through Bevan’s body refuses to leave his mind.

“I’ll call for a Tranquil to take care of your armor,” says Cullen. “You can use my room to wash up if you need to.”

“Thank you, ser.”

As Cullen goes out into the hall to track down a Tranquil--or, more likely, someone who can fetch a Tranquil for him--Carver opens the door to Cullen’s quarters. He finds the bucket of water designated for washing up and dips his hands into it, pooling water into his cupped palms and splashing it onto his face. Although the water isn’t meant for drinking, he brings some to his lips anyways. It helps a little to eliminate the taste of vomit from his mouth, but not much. He finds a dry cloth and wipes his face. His hands continue to shake so much that he nearly drops the cloth into the bucket of water.

When he returns to Cullen’s office, Cullen is sitting at his desk once more. “Feeling better?” he asks Carver.

“No,” Carver replies, deciding to be honest. “I feel like absolute shit, ser.”

“That’s understandable.” Cullen gives a sympathetic nod. “Would you like a glass of wine? It might calm you.”

“Do you have anything stronger?” asks Carver, sinking back down to sit in the chair.

Cullen chuckles. “Unfortunately, no.”

He rises from his seat, retrieving a bottle of wine from a cupboard. Carver wonders whether it is the same bottle that they had started the night when they had first kissed. Cullen pours a glass and returns to where Carver sits, handing it to him.

“Thank you,” Carver says. He takes a sip. It doesn’t do much to calm him.

Silence falls between them. Cullen does not go back to his desk and instead stands at Carver’s side. He lays a hand on top of one of Carver’s as a quiet gesture of comfort. His hand only moves when a Tranquil enters the office to retrieve Carver’s armor, but as soon as the Tranquil is gone he clasps onto Carver’s hand once more.

“You performed your duty well, Carver,” Cullen finally says. “I understand how hard it is. But you didn’t hesitate, and you were able to save everyone in that room--in the entire Gallows, possibly--from falling prey to that abomination.”

“It’s not bloody fair,” Carver grumbles, not caring how petulant he sounds. “Shouldn’t the senior enchanters know whether apprentices are ready for their Harrowing? Why make them do it if they’re not sure whether the apprentice will pass? Aren’t they just putting everyone in danger if the apprentice turns out not to be strong enough to fight against the demon?”

“Because magic is inherently dangerous, no matter how strong the mage is,” Cullen replies. “An apprentice can have all the magical skill in the world and still lack the necessary self-control, and that is what demons prey on. They seek out the mentally weak and physically powerful. And when those qualities intersect, a mage has little hope of avoiding becoming an abomination. We must be there to stop that abomination from causing unspeakable destruction.”

His words do not do much to comfort Carver. “Does it get any easier?” he asks Cullen. “I thought maybe after the first time it wouldn’t be so bad. But…” He trails off there.

“Your sympathetic feelings toward mages no doubt make moments like these all the more difficult,” Cullen says. “And a good templar should not relish the death of an abomination, but rather see it as nothing more than a duty. Mages may not be like you and me, but they are still children of the Maker. In my experience, it is a struggle that many templars must overcome.”

“Were the first few times so hard for you, too?” Carver inquires, not stopping to think about the personal nature of his question. “Sorry, ser. You shouldn’t have to answer that.”

Cullen does not answer right away, which only increases Carver’s fear that he has inquired into something that he shouldn’t. “I think,” he replies finally, “the most difficult Harrowing that I had to witness was one that succeeded. Because if it had not succeeded, I doubt whether I would have been able to kill her. That possibility continues to haunt me to this day.”

“You knew her? The apprentice?” Carver is hesitant to press him on the matter. What little he has learned, however, intrigues him. Cullen is always so insistent about the importance of carrying out a templar’s duties. An account of him hesitating on the matter must be an interesting but most likely painful story.

Cullen lets go of Carver’s hand and moves back to lean against the front of his desk. His hands press against its wooden surface, and he lets out a quiet sigh of mental preparation before he speaks.

“You remember how I mentioned that there had once been a popular rumor that I had been romantically interested in one of the mages at the Fereldan Circle Tower,” he says. “She… She is the one the rumor refers to.”

Cullen’s words do not specifically confirm nor deny the rumor. The way that his voice has become significantly softer, however, tells Carver all that he needs to know.

“But she passed her Harrowing?” Carver says. “You didn’t have to kill her?”

“Yes, thank the Maker. But because of her, I fell into the trap of being too sympathetic to mages. I was…” Cullen hesitates. He rubs the space between his brows, trying to smooth out the troubled crease that appears there. “It was difficult for me when the Circle became overrun. I underestimated the blood mages and abominations, and they almost destroyed me. And all of it tormented me even more because I had dared to fall for a mage.”

Carver drinks the last of the wine in the glass, not quite sure of what he can say. He may have not heard the rumors about Cullen’s romantic attachment to a mage in the Fereldan Circle, but he _has_ heard the whispers about how Cullen had endured unspeakable things there after the Circle had fallen. He knows that Cullen rarely talks about those experiences, and having obtained even a glimpse at those terrible events makes Carver feel like he has completely earned Cullen’s trust.

“What happened to her?” he asks, unsure of whether he wants to know the answer.

“She ended up joining the Grey Wardens,” replies Cullen. “You probably know her better now as the Hero of Ferelden.”

Carver can only gape. So Cullen had once held feelings for the Hero of Ferelden? _That_ certainly makes him feel inadequate. It creates a strange connection between them, too: the Hero of Ferelden is also an Amell, a distant cousin of Carver’s through his mother. How interesting that Cullen has now entangled himself with another Amell, even though Carver is a Hawke by name.

“But I wish to speak no more on that matter,” Cullen continues on. “What I wanted to tell you is that you are not alone in feeling lost after a Harrowing. It is a burden we all must carry in order to keep Kirkwall and the rest of Thedas safe. And sometimes there is no good way to deal with it.”

“If you _were_ to suggest a way to deal with it, though,” says Carver. “With…” He makes a gesture mimicking how he had run his sword through Bevan. “What would you suggest?”

The last time he’d had to kill an apprentice, he hadn’t had the luxury of being able to ask Cullen about something like this. Cullen had been mentoring him back then, of course, but when he had asked Carver how he felt after the Harrowing, he had lied and said he was fine, not wanting to seem weak in front of the Knight-Captain. Now that his relationship with Cullen has changed, however, he feels confident enough to seek a method of handling the nightmares that he knows will come.

“One can always find comfort and strength in the Maker. And, short of that, I will always be here if you need someone to lend an ear to your worries.” Cullen takes a step away from his desk, leaning forward to lay a hand on Carver’s cheek. It is a surprisingly tender gesture, one that he would never expect to receive from another man.

Carver lets out a slow exhale, conscious of how Cullen’s thumb brushes gently against his skin. “Thank you, ser,” he says. “Would you--would you mind if I stayed here for a little while longer?”

“Whatever you need,” replies Cullen. He moves his hand away from Carver’s cheek and gestures toward the glass that Carver holds in his other hand. “Would you like another glass of wine?”

“No, ser. I think one is enough.”

“Very well.” Cullen takes the empty glass from him and sets it on his desk. “I have some paperwork that I need to work on . Shall I attend to it now, or do you require my full attention?”

“No, you can take care of it now. It’s fine.” Carver has said everything that he needs to say. He now only requires the comforting presence of someone he admires and cares about, and Cullen can fill that role regardless of whether he is attending to his Knight-Captain duties.

They sit in silence, and Carver lets himself fall into the state of quiet reflection that he’d originally found so difficult to reach when he had first joined the templars. He lets the words of the Chant guide him, searching for the solace that he hopes he can find.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure._

* * *

Carver’s next free day comes only a couple of days later, which is even more of a relief than usual. A few more scheduled Harrowings remain, and having a day off means that Carver is guaranteed to not have to witness a Harrowing on that day. He won’t be assigned again as the one to kill the apprentice for at least another month or two, but even the act of going into the Harrowing chamber is too much for him to endure at the moment.

He goes to Hightown to visit the family estate, only because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go and he would feel guilty for not visiting his mother on his day off. He can take or leave seeing his brother. With any luck, though, Garrett will be out of the house doing… well, whatever it is he does. Carver’s not even sure about that anymore.

Upon knocking on the front door of the estate, the door opens and he finds Orana on the other side, the same as last time. “Messere Carver,” she greets him. At least she has remembered him from his prior visit. “I regret to inform you that Master Hawke is away from the house right now.”

“I’m not here for him,” Carver replies. “I’m here for my mother.”

“Of course.” Orana gives him a slight bow of acknowledgement. “Mistress Amell is inside. Please, come this way.”

Carver follows Orana into the house and finds his mother sitting in one of the chairs in front of the fire, reading a book. When she notices his presence, she sets the book aside and stands up to welcome him with a warm hug and a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s so good to see you, darling,” she says.

“You too, Mother.” Carver nods to the book that she has been reading. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you sitting down and reading a book for leisure.”

“Having all of this spare time has been wonderful.” His mother smiles. “I never thought I’d return to a noble’s life again. And sometimes I do miss the simplicity of how things were when it was the five of us in Lothering.” The phrase “the five of us” makes Carver’s heart ache for his father and Bethany. “But living here is wonderful in its own way. And your brother has been building up the quite the library of books. His friends have a tendency of slipping their own less reputable titles into it, though.” She laughs.

“As long as you don’t read anything of Isabela’s,” says Carver.

“Oh, that’s exactly what Garrett said.” His mother touches his arm fondly. “Would you like to sit down? I’ll make us some tea.”

Carver agrees. He sits down in the chair across from the one that his mother has been occupying. The dog rises from where he lies next to the fire and approaches the chair, nudging his nose against Carver’s legs. Carver leans forward to pet him, scratching behind his ears in the spot that he likes.

His mother returns a few minutes later with the tea. Carver accepts the cup from her and takes a sip. The tea contains the sweet flavor that he expects from his mother’s tea. The taste gives him a burst of nostalgia for Lothering. A vivid memory enters his mind: sitting in front of the fire drinking tea with his mother and Bethany, watching enviously as his father taught Garrett various magic parlor tricks. Garrett had tried to convince Bethany to join in, but she had refused, clinging tightly to Carver and insisting that magic should not be a game. How old had he been then? Nine? Ten? How easily he forgets these things.

“Is something wrong, darling?” his mother asks. “You look troubled.”

“Nothing really,” Carver replies, letting the memory vanish back into the corner of his mind. His mother has been so happy lately that he doesn’t want her to worry about him. “The past few days have been pretty rough. That’s all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” She looks at him with a slight frown in her expression. “Is there anything that I can do to help?”

“No.” He is far beyond the age when his mother can fix all of his problems with a hug and kind words. “It’s templar stuff. You wouldn’t understand.” Even if he wanted to, he can’t tell her about why the Harrowings trouble him so much. Nobody is supposed to know what happens during the ritual except for those who have already witnessed or experienced one.

“Oh, _Carver_.” His mother may not be able to make things better with her words and actions, but the way that she walks over to him, puts an arm around him, and strokes his hair comforts him a little.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like being a templar, mostly,” says Carver. “I’m good at it, and it makes me feel… I dunno. Like I’ve found my own place in everything. But some parts of it make me wonder whether I made the right decision to join them.”

His mother does not say anything, although she continues to stroke his hair. Her gentle comfort prompts Carver onward, forcing him to give voice to the thoughts that have been haunting him for the past few days--thoughts that he has not even discussed with Cullen.

“I think about some of the things that we templars have to do to the mages. And I wonder… do you think Father would have been disappointed in me for becoming what I am? He did everything to keep Bethany and Garrett, and himself too, out of the Circle. And then I came along and decided to become the very thing that he wanted to protect them from.”

“Carver. Don’t talk like that.” A hint of sternness enters his mother’s voice. “Your father may have not agreed with your decision, just like how I had my doubts. But he would have never used it as a reason to be disappointed in you.”

“He wouldn’t have been proud of me, though,” Carver admits. “What’s there to be proud about having a templar in a family of mages? I’ve had to _kill_ mages, innocent ones, and every time I have to do it I see Bethany or Garrett, and I’m afraid that one day I’m going to see Father, and…”

He breaks off, resting his head in his hands with a shaking breath. _Maker give me strength_ , he thinks, remembering Cullen’s advice to him.

“Your father did not condone the actions of the templars and the existence of the Circle,” his mother says. “But he did not believe that all templars are bad. Remember, it was because of a templar that he and I were able to escape from Kirkwall and be together. He named you for that templar, because that Ser Carver was a good man. And he knew that you would become a good man too. Which you have.”

“You’re supposed to say that,” Carver grumbles. “You’re my mother.”

“And I always will be.” She touches his cheek to get him to look at her. She then embraces him as tightly as she can with him in his armor and kisses his forehead in a tender gesture. “Now, you should drink the rest of your tea before it goes cold.”

Carver does so. The reminder of his namesake does not completely erase everything that has troubled him over the past few days, but it does remind him that he is a fool to think that his family is disappointed in him for having become a templar. Not even Garrett judges him too openly about that matter anymore, and he had been the one who had taken the most offense to it. His family does not need to be disappointed in him, either. He will continue to prove himself as the good man that his father wanted him to be.

He spends the rest of the afternoon with his mother, glad to be able to talk to her without his brother’s interruptions. She invites him to stay for dinner, but he politely refuses. He has to be back at the Gallows by sundown, and surely he and Cullen will want to take advantage of Carver’s evening off to spend some time together. Therefore, when evening falls he bids farewell to his mother with only the smallest amount of guilt.

“You’ll come visit again on your next day off, won’t you?” his mother asks as she walks with him to the front door.

“Yeah, of course.” It has been the same routine for him over the past three years. Carver is not about to break that pattern now.

“Good. Have a safe journey back. I love you so much, darling.”

“You too, Mother. And… thank you. I feel a little better about everything now. I think.”

She hugs him one last time, and with a final word of goodbye, Carver walks away from her.


	6. Chapter 6

The next several days bring two more Harrowings that Carver has to witness, but fortunately in both cases the apprentices pass with flying colors. An additional sense of relief comes when his schedule undergoes its routine alteration and he discovers that he once again has his evenings free. Considering how Cullen has to approve every duty roster, Carver wonders whether this has occurred as a result of the Knight-Captain’s meddling. It doesn’t matter to Carver, though. What matters is that the most recent batch of Harrowings has been dealt with, and now he and Cullen have more time than ever to enjoy their clandestine encounters in the latter’s office.

One morning, Carver wakes up in particularly good spirits, the best that he has felt since the failed Harrowing. His memories of what he and Cullen had done the night before certainly contribute to his mood. They had not exactly done anything new, but fierce kisses and warm touches are more than enough to satisfy them right now. Just the thought of hearing Cullen’s moan as he comes is enough to distract Carver from his duties.

Carver is nearly out the door of his quarters to go to breakfast when a Tranquil arrives and hands a letter to him. Carver frowns down at it in curiosity. The only person he usually receives letters from is his mother. Not much more than a week since Carver has last seen her, and so she would have little reason to write to him so soon. It wouldn’t be from his brother, either. Garrett usually only writes to him if Carver has written him first, and Carver has not sent him a letter in months. Perhaps it is from one of Garrett’s companions, although Carver can’t imagine why any of them would want to write to him. He hasn’t spent a significant amount of time with any of them since becoming a templar. Half of them don’t even _like_ him anyway.

Carver turns over the envelope and notices the Amell crest on its seal. Maybe it _is_ from his mother after all. When he tears open the envelope, however, the handwriting on the piece of paper contained within is not the neat curves and lines of his mother, but rather the sharp scrawl of his brother.

_Carver,_

_Something’s happened. I need you to come to the estate as soon as you have received this letter._

_Your brother,_

_G. Hawke_

The brevity of the letter immediately sends off warning bells in Carver’s head. The other letters that he has received from Garrett have usually been filled with friendly jabs and comments that only his brother would consider funny. This letter, though, is uncharacteristically serious. Carver knows him well enough to know that when his brother becomes unquestionably serious, something has gone wrong.

But what could have happened? It can’t be anything regarding his mother. She had been fine when he had seen her a week ago, and Carver does not worry much about her safety. The only usual reasons she has to leave the house are shopping in the Hightown markets and visiting Uncle Gamlen in Lowtown. Although he suppose that the latter could be considered a dangerous location, she only travels there in broad daylight and usually with accompaniment. Carver is more concerned about _Garrett’s_ safety than hers, and obviously Garrett is fine if he could write this letter.

Whatever it is, though, must have happened recently. A letter from Hightown won’t take more than a day to reach the Gallows, and his brother has made the urgency of the situation abundantly clear. Carver therefore is left with little choice than to skip out on this morning’s duties and go to the estate. Fortunately, he happens to be messing around with the second most powerful templar in the Gallows, who can give him emergency leave with very few questions asked.

With the letter still clutched in his hand, Carver heads not toward the dining hall but instead Cullen’s office. He knocks on the door, and when he receives no immediate reply he knocks again, a little harder this time. The door then opens, revealing an unarmored and slightly flustered Cullen.

“Ser Carver,” he says in surprise. “You should be at breakfast.”

“I know, ser. But it’s important. Can I come in?”

“Yes, of course.” Cullen steps aside to let him enter, although he continues to look bewildered.

Once the door has closed behind them and they have seated themselves, Carver holds up the letter. “I got a letter from my brother just now,” he explains. “He said that something’s happened and I need to come home right away. Normally I’d just ignore him and go the next time I’m free, because he’s an idiot and sometimes just likes making up excuses to see me, but…” He trails off, unable to articulate the gut feeling of dread that the letter has brought to him. “Can you get me out of my morning duties? Maybe my afternoon ones too.”

“Yes,” Cullen confirms with almost no hesitation. “It’s not something that is normally, done, but for you I think I can make an exception. I will find someone to cover your duties, and I will inform everyone who matters that you have been granted a day’s leave for a personal errand that I have sanctioned.”

“Thank you, ser,” Carver sighs in relief. Hearing Cullen’s unfaltering support for him helps to ease the anxiety that swells in the pit of his stomach.

Cullen finds a spare bit of paper and dips his quill into the ink bottle to write something upon it. He then hands it to Carver. “Here. Show this to the knights on guard duty if they give you a hard time for leaving or coming back.”

Carver reads the message written upon the paper: _I, Knight-Captain Cullen, hereby grant Ser Carver permission to leave the Gallows for a personal errand on this 11th day of Bloomingtide, Year 9:34 Dragon_. Beneath these words, Cullen has added his signature as an added measure of authority.

“Thank you,” Carver says once more. “I’ll owe you for this.”

“I hope that everything is all right,” Cullen replies. “You’ll, ah… You’ll let me know when you get back, won’t you?” His voice has become softer. This is not the voice of Carver’s Knight-Captain, but rather that of his friend (or, in all honesty, his more-than-friend) who cares deeply about Carver’s well-being.

“‘Course,” Carver assures him. “I’ll see you later, Knight-Captain.”

He offers a salute before leaving the office. The Gallows feel so empty as Carver makes his way to the front gate, since everyone--recruits and templars, apprentices and mages--is still at breakfast. He does not encounter anyone until he reaches the templars standing guard at the gate. They do not question him, but he shows them Cullen’s permission anyway. The guards are newly-minted knights, the frequent victims of early morning and late night guard duty. Anything with the Knight-Captain’s signature on it is more than enough to convince them that Carver is leaving the Gallows for a legitimate reason.

By the time that Carver reaches Hightown, all of his internal organs feel as if they have tied themselves into knots. Dreading what he is going to discover when he enters the estate, he knocks on the door.

Orana meets him at the door in what is becoming a routine. “Master Hawke is not seeing any visitors at the moment,” she says before he can get any words out.

“He _told_ me to come,” Carver retorts. “I can show you the letter if you want. Just let me in.”

“I--yes. Of course, messere.”

Once she has permitted him entry, Carver rushes inside. The first thing that he notices is that his mother is not in the main room of the house like she normally is. But that doesn’t mean anything, does it? She could easily be in the kitchen, or upstairs, or out of the house for a completely mundane reason. He turns to ask Orana if his mother is home, but the elven servant has already disappeared into another room of the estate. His next plan of action is to ask the estate’s manservants, Bodahn and Sandal, if they know where his mother is, but they are nowhere to be found either.

The situation is getting stranger and stranger. Carver’s heart pounds in his chest. He hopes with every fiber of his being that his brother has not summoned him here because something has happened to their mother. It _can’t_ be true. She’d been fine a week ago. It has to be something else.

And most importantly, where _is_ Garrett? Carver’s best guess is that he is in his bedroom, since Orana had said that he is not taking visitors. Upon going upstairs, he discovers that the door is closed, and so Carver bangs a fist against it, desperate for answers.

“Brother!” he calls through the door. “Open up!”

He receives no response. Sick of not getting an explanation for anything, Carver pushes the door open. Sure enough, Garrett sits on his bed with the dog curled up at his feet. He does not do anything to respond to Carver’s presence.

“Where’s Mother?” Carver demands.

At his words, his brother raises his head to acknowledge him. He looks terrible. Dark circles under his eyes indicate a lack of sleep, and the usual sparkle of good humor in his eyes has dulled into an emotional deadness that is so unlike the Garrett that Carver knows.

“Where is she?” repeats Carver.

“She’s…” His brother’s voice is quiet, hoarse. “She’s gone, Carver.”

“Gone? Gone where?” Carver has no time for this. The sinking feeling in his stomach already knows the answer to the question, but oh, Maker, _no_ , please don’t let it be true.

“She was taken. Yesterday, on her way to Uncle Gamlen’s. I tried to go after the one who took her, but by the time I caught up with him…” Garrett shakes his head. He scrubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. “It was too late. He’d murdered her.”

“No.” Carver shakes his head furiously. The walls of the room feel like they are closing in around him. Something is pulling him in all directions, tearing at his guts like it is trying to cut him open and rip him apart. “You’re lying. You’re fucking lying.” Any minute now, Garrett is going to burst into laughter, assuring Carver that all of this has been a colossal joke. It will be the cruelest joke his brother has ever played on him, but at least it won’t be _true_.

“I was there. She died in my _arms_.” Garrett’s voice breaks on the last word, splintering apart out of anger, grief, or both. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Carver does not want to believe him, but his brother’s broken words leave little ambiguity. A heart-wrenching stab of grief hits him all at once, piercing straight through his heart. His legs threaten to collapse out from beneath him, and he has to grip the edges of the doorframe to keep himself upright. He has felt this kind of knife-to-the-heart emotional pain twice before, after the deaths of his father and Bethany. Each time he has felt like he could have never prepared himself for the raw ache of loss.

His mother _can’t_ be gone. He had seen her last week. She had been fine. She is supposed to always be here to give him love and support whether he wants it or not, greeting him with a smile and inviting him in for tea and a home-cooked meal. Now, however, he will never again experience any of those things. She is gone from his life, just like that. And of course _Garrett_ had been the one to be with her during her final moments. It always has to be Garrett who does everything, and… oh, Maker, Carver feels terrible for resenting him about something like this, but the thoughts creep into his mind anyway.

“You should have done something,” Carver accuses. He grips the sides of the doorframe tightly, his fingers pressing hard into the wood. “You were there. You could have done something to save her. You always have to be saving bloody _everyone_ , don’t you? So _why couldn’t you save her_?”

Garrett stands up from the bed. The abrupt motion startles the dog, who runs off to lie on his usual spot on the rug. “You don’t think that’s what I’ve been thinking about ever since it happened?” his brother retorts. “You were the same after Bethany too. You and Mother both. ‘Why didn’t you protect her? You could have saved her.’ I wish you could just get it through your thick skull that I _can’t fucking save everyone_. And because of that, Mother is gone too, and I--”

He breaks off. His shoulders are shaking. Wisps of magic swirl around his fingertips, a mark of his overwhelmed emotions seeping out through unrestrained magic.

“I don’t need this from you, Carver.” Garrett’s voice trembles. “Not now. You’re all I have left in our family. Father, Bethany, and now Mother… all of them are gone. I was supposed to be the one to hold this family together after Father passed. And look at what a shit job I’ve done.”

A quiet, snuffling breath leaves him, and Carver realizes that his brother is crying. Carver can’t remember the last time that he has seen him cry. Garrett’s magic continues to pour forth from his fingertips, as if he hopes that it will create a barrier between him and Carver. Carver is not afraid of his brother’s magic, though, no matter how much the lyrium in his system tells him that he needs to dispel it. Because this is _Garrett_ , and Carver will never have any reason to fear him.

He takes a hesitant step forward. He reaches out a hand and touches Garrett’s shoulder. “Brother,” he says softly.

Garrett does not move away from his touch. The physical contact between them causes something in his magic to relent, and it fades away until Carver can barely feel the spikes of uncontrolled magic. Carver then fully embraces his brother once he knows that it is safe for him to do so.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I... Shit, Garrett. I’m so sorry.”

It has been so long since he has hugged Garrett like this. They cling to each other tightly, two men who now have no family but each other. No matter how much bad blood has existed between them in the past, they are able to unite in this single moment. They are no longer a mage and a templar, but rather brothers struggling desperately to find their emotional footing in the wake of loss.

Eventually, Garrett pulls away from him. He wipes his eyes, sniffling quietly. “Your armor’s terribly pokey, you know,” he says. He tries to laugh, but the sound comes out more like a pathetic sob.

“Yeah. I should probably leave it off.” Carver works at the buckles of his armor, carefully removing the pieces.

Garrett sits down on his bed once more, and the dog returns to his side. He pats a spot on the bed next to him to invite the dog up to snuggle against him. The dog obliges, jumping up and resting his head on Garrett’s lap. When Carver is down to his robe, he sits on his brother’s other side, reaching to scratch the dog behind the ears.

“Look at us, baby brother,” says Garrett. “Fighting even at a time like this. Mother would have been so disappointed with us.”

His words send a fresh wave of hurt through Carver. “It’s not fair,” he murmurs. “She’s _Mother_. I thought she would--” He stops there, unwilling to bring himself to admit his childish hope that his mother will always be there for him.

“I know.” His brother puts an arm around him. “Me too.”

Carver leans against him. The quiet thrum of Garrett’s dormant magic is oddly comforting. Even though he hadn’t been able to feel the physical aura of magic until he started taking lyrium, it reminds him of when he was younger and he was the only one who could calm Bethany down when she would lose control of her magic in a surge of emotion. He wonders what the aura of Bethany’s magic would feel like, but that line of thought amplifies the deep pang of sorrow within his heart. One thing is certain, however: in the Gallows, he has been taught that magic feels like fear, but when it comes to his family, magic feels like home.

Garrett soon rises from the bed, walking over to his writing desk. He comes back with a bottle of wine, which he pops open.

“Fenris left this for me yesterday,” he explains after he has taken a long drink from it. “He brought a whole case, actually. I suppose he didn’t realize that him simply being here would be enough.”

“Fenris was here?” Carver asks, confused as to why Fenris of all people would try to comfort his brother at a time like this. He then remembers that the two of them are supposedly together now, for Maker knows what reason.

Garrett nods. “Isabela, too. She stayed with me… right after.” His voice contains a painful note of hesitation in it. “Until Fenris arrived. He didn’t leave until this morning, not long before you got here.”

At least his brother has not had to spend the night alone, and that is a small comfort. Carver cannot imagine how lonely it must be for Garrett to have to face the long nights of being by himself in the estate.

“He hasn’t come back, though?” Carver inquires.

“He’ll be back tonight. I hope.” Garrett takes another drink. He looks like he is about to say something else about Fenris, but when he speaks again he says, “So. What do you say, baby brother? Shall we drink to Mother?”

“Yeah,” agrees Carver. Garrett fetches him his own bottle of wine and hands it to him.

“To Mother,” his brother declares. His voice shakes only slightly. “For everything she did for us. May she find peace with the Maker and be with Father and Bethany again.”

“To Mother,” Carver echoes him. They tap their wine bottles together and drink. The wine has a much more refined taste than what Carver is used to, dry and musky.

As they continue to drink, the sinking reality of the situation becomes more and more inescapable to Carver. The alcohol helps ease out the grief-stricken swirl of emotions that overwhelms him. “She said she’d see me again on my next day off,” he laments when he is more than halfway through the bottle. “But neither of us knew that it would be the last time. It’s so fucking unfair, Brother. She deserved more than this.”

Garrett rubs his chin, his fingers brushing against coarse beard hairs. It is a mannerism that he has picked up from their father, and seeing the gesture still hurts all these years later. “I’ll miss the way she would always try to do everything around the house, even with Orana here,” he says. “Poor Orana would get so confused. Mother was especially protective of the kitchen. It was so difficult to convince her that Orana should be allowed to make tea for guests.”

“Orana doesn’t even make tea the way that Mother does.” _Did_ , Carver mentally corrects himself. The correction is too painful for him to make aloud.

His brother laughs, and the sound is less pitiful than his last attempt at laughter. “You still take your tea far too sweet?”

“Shut up,” Carver grumbles. He takes a drink before steering the conversation away from his embarrassing tastes in beverages. “I’ll miss how she always laughed at your stupid jokes. It made me so mad. Half of them weren’t even funny.”

“And she’d always be the one to get between us whenever we fought.” Garrett drinks as well. “Bethany, too. I guess there’s no one to keep us from fighting over nothing now. I suppose it’s just as well, though,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Mother always favored you, anyway.”

“That’s bullshit,” Carver insists. “You’re the golden child. You nearly set me on fire once when we were younger and I was the one who got punished for provoking you. Father was so angry with me.”

“Yes, but you didn’t have to hear Mother after you left to join the templars,” Garrett points out. “Nothing but ‘Oh, my poor, sweet Carver, gone off to become one of those awful templars. You should have been here to stop him.’ Like it was _my_ fault that you joined up with them.” A distinct note of bitterness enters his brother’s voice.

“It _was_ your fault, a bit,” admits Carver. “If you didn’t have such a big, fat shadow for me to get stuck in, I reckon I might not have done it. But I don’t regret that things happened the way they did.”

He recalls some of his mother’s final words to him (and oh, how much that phrase hurts, “final words”). She had believed that he had grown into a good man despite joining the ranks of the group that his family has spent so long running from. Maker, what he wouldn’t give to return to that moment, just so that he can see his mother one last time.

“I’ll even miss her nagging about how I should settle down and marry,” says Garrett. He drinks, giving a rueful laugh after he has swallowed the wine. “It was always ‘So-and-so has a daughter who I think you’d like,’ or she’d invite single noble ladies to dinner and dangle me in front of them. And no matter how many times I reminded her that I prefer men and that the whole ‘being an apostate’ thing kind of puts a damper on my marriage prospects, she still wouldn’t give up. She was relentless like that.” He gives a deep exhale, and it shakes a little on the way out. “Maker, I’m going to miss her so much.”

“Yeah. Me too.” The swallow of wine that Carver has in his mouth turns bitter at the thought. “What are we going to do, Brother? With it being just the two of us now?”

“I’ll tell you when I figure that out.” His brother taps a finger against the neck of his bottle of wine in an absent motion. The bottle is almost empty now, and so is Carver’s. “But for now, we’ll drink to her memory. Another bottle, Carver?”

“Another bottle,” Carver agrees, and they carry on, filling the emptiness of grief in their hearts with wine and fond memories.


	7. Chapter 7

The amount of wine that Carver and his brother consume throughout the course of the day is enough to get them both sufficiently drunk. It is a higher level of intoxication than anything Carver has experienced in a long time, completely eclipsing the slight onset of tipsiness that had led him to kiss Cullen weeks ago. When Carver leaves the estate a few hours before nightfall, he is staggering, and it is a wonder that he has even managed to get his armor back on. The alcohol has dulled his grief, although it continues to lurk beneath the surface, waiting for an opportunity to burst forth again. His only hope is that he can reach the Gallows without breaking down or falling over drunk.

The journey back to the Gallows passes by in a haze. When Carver arrives at the front gate, he digs out Cullen’s note of permission from the pocket of his robe in case the templars on duty question where he has been. He stumbles past the guards once he has received clearance to enter, not caring that his is visibly drunk. He has seen drunker templars on previous occasions when they have returned from drinking in the city on their days off.

A quiet voice in his head tells him that he should retire to his quarters and sleep this off. His footsteps carry him elsewhere, and he soon finds himself outside of Cullen’s office. He thinks about knocking on the door, but his hand reaches for the doorknob and pulls the door open before his mind can tell him not to. Cullen will have no reason to deny his entry, he decides--or perhaps that is merely his drunken logic.

“Maker’s breath! Ser Carver!” Cullen nearly overturns his ink bottle in surprise. He moves the bottle further away from the paperwork that he is working on in a preemptive measure to prevent a future accident. “What are you doing here?” Upon seeing the waver in Carver’s step, he adds, “Are you all right?”

“I had a lot to drink,” Carver admits sheepishly. He shuts the door behind him, stumbling over his own feet as he enters the office. “I wanted to see you.”

Cullen rises from his seat and walks over to him, putting an arm across Carver’s shoulders to help him reach the chair in front of the desk. “What happened?” he asks. “You didn’t ask for leave just to get drunk, did you?” Cullen almost looks stern. He has his Knight-Captain face on.

“No,” says Carver. He tries to laugh, but the sound that he makes does not sound much like laughter at all.

“Then what happened?” Cullen grips both arms of Carver’s chair, leaning forward to look directly at him.

Seeing the deep worry and concern in Cullen’s eyes causes something to break within him. Whatever that fracture is, it pushes through the emotional numbness that has been protecting Carver from facing the pain of everything that has happened. Every emotion that Carver has experienced since hearing of his mother’s death bubbles up at once.

“My mother, she’s--” Carver squeezes his eyes shut, as if this action will hold back his surge of emotions. “She’s gone. She’s dead.”

His eyes burn, and he rubs a hand across them. He is _not_ going to let himself cry. He had not cried in front of Garrett, and he is definitely not going to cry in front of Cullen. A pitiful noise escapes from him anyway, a strangled, sobbing gasp. He buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

“Carver.” Cullen’s voice has taken on a gentler tone, the one that Carver only hears from him during their clandestine meetings. “I--I know no words can suffice in a situation like this. But I am very sorry for your loss.”

Carver does not respond. He feels small and lost, floating in the sea of his emotions without an anchor to hold him down. The only thing that he can cling to is the presence of Cullen in front of him. And so he does, in more than just a figurative sense. He stands up from his chair and lets himself collapse against the Knight-Captain, holding on desperately to his armor and the strong body beneath it. Another not-quite sob leaves him, and Cullen wraps his arms around him to pull him closer.

“She has gone to be with the Maker now,” Cullen says. “I know that is only a small comfort. I’m sorry. I’m not very good in these sorts of situations.”

“Sod the Maker,” Carver replies, not caring about how blasphemous it is for him, a templar, to speak against the Maker. “I want her _here_. Like she’s always been. I want--”

He cannot get any more words out before he breaks down completely, spilling all of his overwhelming emotions into Cullen’s arms. Their embrace is awkward with both of them in their armor, but Cullen holds him close anyway, stroking a hand up and down his back to comfort him.

“Shh,” Cullen soothes him. “It’ll be all right.” It _won’t_ be all right, though, at least not for a while. The hesitation in Cullen’s voice indicates that he understands this. “Come with me. You’ve been through a lot, and you’ve had more than enough to drink. You should rest.”

He keeps an arm wrapped around Carver as he leads him into his quarters. Carver stumbles along beside him, sniffling and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Cullen sits him down on his bed, undoing the clasps and buckles that hold Carver’s armor in place. Carver does not resist him, letting Cullen undress him like he is a helpless child. His robe and boots come off as well, and then Cullen motions for him to lie down. Carver does so with a little bit of hesitation. He has never been in Cullen’s bed before. He has always hoped that the first time he would do so would be in a more intimate context, not because he is drunk and grieving.

The room spins slightly around him as he lies back. Cullen disappears from his sight but soon returns with a handkerchief and a cup of water. Carver accepts them with a weak word of thanks, blowing his nose and wiping his eyes with the handkerchief. He then sits up slightly so that he can drink. A few droplets of water miss his mouth, running down his chin until he wipes them away.

Cullen, meanwhile, busies himself with removing his own armor. A curious thought in the back of Carver’s mind questions why he is doing this, but he does not linger on that issue for too long. He continues to drink the water that he has been given, letting the storm of emotions that has swallowed him up fade away until nothing is left but the empty pit of heartache.

After he has finished the water, Cullen takes the cup from him. Carver lies down once more, curling in on himself and keeping Cullen’s handkerchief fisted in his hand to give himself something to hold onto. He feels the mattress sink slightly as Cullen sits down next to him. A tentative hand rests against his back.

“What was your mother’s name?” Cullen asks him.

 _Was_ , not _is_ , and the difference pierces Carver straight through the heart. “Leandra Hawke,” he replies. “Or… Amell, I guess. She took my father’s name after they married, but I think she’d started to use Amell again after getting the estate back.”

“I will keep her in my prayers,” says Cullen. “That she finds peace with the Maker, and that you and your brother find guidance in this difficult time.”

“Are you going to stay here with me?” Carver inquires. He wants Cullen here, close enough so that he can touch him and be assured that he can feel _something_ in the sea of numbness that has overtaken him.

Cullen hesitates. He casts a glance toward his office, undoubtedly thinking about the work that he has to attend to there. “Of course,” he says. “I… I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Thank you.” Carver’s response is muffled into Cullen’s pillow.

Cullen shifts, lying down so that he can press himself against Carver’s back. He wraps an arm around Carver to hold him close. The embrace is physically intimate, but not inherently sexual. Cullen presses his nose into Carver’s hair, and the gentle brush of a kiss against his head soon follows.

A wave of exhaustion hits Carver full on, and only the fear of seeing his mother in his dreams keeps him awake. The calming presence of Cullen lying beside him gives him the courage to close his eyes. If his Knight-Captain is here, then Carver should have no reason to fear.

He breathes in and out, focusing on the warmth of Cullen’s body beside him, and eventually he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Carver awakens groggy and disoriented, unsure of where he is except for that it is not his quarters. He rubs his hand across his eyes. His head feels as if it has been stuffed with wool, and his mouth is dry. He slowly pieces together everything that he remembers. He’d been drinking with his brother, because… Because. Because their mother is dead. The pain of it surges through Carver all over again, making his heart ache as badly as it did when he first heard the news.

And after that, he’d come back to the Gallows, hadn’t he? He’d gone to Cullen’s quarters, and… yes, that explains where he is right now. Cullen no longer lies beside him, however. Carver rolls over in the bed with a groan, his body thoroughly protesting the change in position. He discovers that Cullen sits at the table in the room, having brought the work he needs to attend to with him.

“You’re awake,” Cullen says upon noticing his movement. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.” Carver massages his forehead, but his headache remains. “How long was I asleep?”

“A few hours. It’s nearly curfew.”

If Carver didn’t know otherwise, he’d think that he has been sleeping for days. He certainly _wants_ to do so. Sleeping is more preferable to the unbearable pain that he has experienced since hearing of his mother’s death.

“I should go back to my quarters,” he says. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“There’s no need.” replies Cullen. “I have already sent word that you are indisposed and will not be returning to your quarters tonight. You may stay here instead. I imagine it would be much more comfortable here than in your bunk.”

 _Indisposed_. It is such an elegant way of saying “overwhelmed by grief and on the brink of a horrible hangover.” Carver tries to shift his position to sit up, but his body continues to have none of that. He allows himself a self-pitying moan as he lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Do you need anything?” Cullen asks. “If you want to sleep some more, I’ll try not to disturb you.”

“I need to take a piss.” Along with all of the other ways that his body is rebelling against him, Carver has become acutely aware of how full his bladder is. Considering the amount that he has drunk, he is surprised that he hasn’t accidentally pissed himself by now.

“You can use my lavatory,” offers Cullen.

Using all of the willpower that he possesses, Carver pulls himself up and stumbles into the tiny lavatory. He braces one hand against the wall for support as he fumbles with his trousers to relieve himself. Not until now does he realize how much he has truly had to drink. He remembers that has hardly had anything to eat, either. At the estate Orana had brought up food for him and Garrett, but neither of them had eaten much of it. No wonder the alcohol has affected him so much.

He leaves the washroom once he has finished, rubbing his fingers in steady circles against his temples in an attempt to soothe his headache. Cullen watches him in concern, and when Carver sits down on the bed once more, Cullen joins him.

“You’re sweating,” Cullen notes. “Are you sure you’re not ill?”

Carver shakes his head. He immediately regrets the movement, which brings him a sudden bout of dizziness. One thing is for certain: this is going to be an absolute _bitch_ of a hangover. As if the pain of everything that has happened isn’t bad enough.

A slight frown crosses Cullen’s expression. He touches a hand to Carver’s forehead to check his temperature. “You’re a little feverish,” he says. “I doubt it’s due to the amount you drank. Are you--” Cullen breaks off there, realization dawning in his eyes. “Did you take your lyrium this evening?”

Carver wracks his memory. “No,” he replies. Usually he takes his required dosage twice daily without fail, once in the morning before breakfast and again around dinnertime. Even when he has to be away from the Gallows at those times, he remembers to take a vial with him. This morning, however, his brother’s letter had caught him so off-guard that he had forgotten to tuck his evening dosage into his pocket as a matter of precaution. By the time he had returned to the Gallows, lyrium had been the last thing on his mind.

“That would explain it. You won’t suffer the worst effects of withdrawal, like hallucinations and delusions, from being only several hours off it. But your body will start to notice the difference quickly.” Cullen rises from the bed and opens the drawer of his nightstand. Carver sees the collection of familiar vials, enough lyrium rations for approximately a month. “What’s your evening dosage?”

“Er. Three drams, I think.” Carver hardly pays attention to the numbers. All he knows is that dosages vary from templar to templar according to their natural ability, and lyrium taken in the evening is more to maintain the body’s dependence on it than to enhance a templar’s skills.

“Here.” Cullen hands him a vial. “That should be enough. Hopefully your symptoms will go away once it enters your system. Otherwise I’ll have to believe that you’re actually ill.”

Ill with grief, perhaps. Pushing those thoughts out of his mind, Carver takes the top off the vial and downs its contents. Once he has swallowed the lyrium, a burst of clarity heightens his senses. The high lasts only briefly before it fades, although he continues to feel the lyrium coursing through his veins and satisfying his starved body.

“Feeling better?” Cullen inquires as Carver sets the empty vial on the nightstand.

“A bit,” admits Carver. His splitting headache lingers, but overall he feels a little less like death now. That probably isn’t the best metaphor for him to use, though. All it does is remind him that his mother is dead.

He lets out a quiet sigh. Cullen’s hand touches his back gently, and Carver lets himself become pulled into a half-embrace. He leans to rest his forehead on Cullen’s shoulder. Their physical closeness ignites something within him, a longing to feel _something_ that is not physical or emotional exhaustion. He nuzzles his face into Cullen’s neck, kissing up and down the line of his throat with soft touches of his lips.

“Carver,” says Cullen. He does not have a chance to say anything else before Carver kisses him, pressing their lips together as he desperately searches for something, _anything_ , to give him solace. Cullen’s arm tightens around him, pulling him closer, and Carver lets their kiss deepen. If nothing else, having someone to hold and kiss like this makes him feel less alone.

He runs his hand down the front of Cullen’s shirt in the sparse amount of space between their bodies. Bringing his hand underneath the fabric, he touches the smoothness of Cullen’s skin, memorizing the ripple of muscle and hardness of bone. The feeling of Cullen’s body beneath his fingertips reminds him that he has not lost everything apart from his brother. He still has Cullen and whatever this is that exists between them, and that will not change. Carver will not _let_ it change.

He slips a hand into the front of Cullen’s trousers, tracing the outline of his cock through his smallclothes. Cullen’s hand closes around his wrist in a preventive motion.

“Carver,” he says again. “Stop.”

“What? Why?” Cullen has never stopped him before, not since the first night that they had kissed. Carver is not doing anything new, either. They have touched each other in this manner dozens of times by now. So what makes this time different?

“We shouldn’t do this. You’ve been drinking, and you’re emotionally compromised right now. I don’t want you to do anything that you’ll regret.”

“I’m not drunk anymore,” Carver points out. He tries to move his hand against Cullen’s grip, but Cullen does not allow him. “And I _want_ this. I want…” He breaks off, pressing his forehead against Cullen’s shoulder once more. “I just want to feel something. Something that doesn’t hurt. Because _everything_ fucking hurts right now, and…”

“Shh.” Cullen pulls Carver closer to him, rubbing the back of his head soothingly. It reminds Carver of something his mother would do when he is upset, which makes his heart ache even more. “I know this is a difficult time for you, and I can’t imagine how you must be feeling. But there are other ways for me to be here for you and make you feel less alone that don’t involve that. There will be other times for intimacy when you are not exhausted and grieving.”

Carver does not say anything in response. His emotions swell inside him, threatening to spill out, but he does not want to let himself cry again. He has done that once, gotten it over with, but now it is time for him to be strong. Strong like how his mother would have wanted him to be.

He sniffles, lifting his head from Cullen’s shoulder and wiping his nose with his hand. Remembering that he still has Cullen’s handkerchief, he cleans off his hands and blows his nose before collapsing back down onto the bed.

“You’ll let me sleep here, right?” he asks. There is nowhere else in Cullen’s quarters for him to sleep except the floor, and he does not like the idea of doing that in his current condition. That then raises the question of where Cullen will sleep. Nestling himself against Carver to comfort him is one thing, but the two of them sleeping in the same bed through the night seems a little _too_ much like they are lovers. Yet Carver wants that closeness of Cullen pressed up against his body. and this desire brings him an additional level of confusion to the turmoil of emotions that he feels.

“You need the bed more than I do. I need to--” Cullen gestures to the table where he has been working. “Not that I will be working through the night, I hope. But you should have a comfortable night’s rest. I will try not to disturb you.”

Carver gives an incoherent murmur in response. He scrubs a hand against his eyes, fighting against the fatigue that overtakes him. His head continues to throb, and closing his eyes brings him a slight amount of relief.

“Cullen,” he says.

Cullen’s name feels strange on his lips, and that is when he realizes that he has never addressed him by his name before. He has always called him “Knight-Captain” or “ser,” never “Cullen” by itself. Cullen does not seem to notice anything different, however, judging by the quiet “Hmm?” that he responds with.

“Thank you,” Carver continues on. “For… putting up with me, I guess.”

“Sleep well,” says Cullen. He brushes his fingers against Carver’s hand in a gentle motion. “If you need anything else, don’t be afraid to ask.”

Carver wriggles himself beneath the blanket. It is not long at all before sleep overpowers him once again, ready to bring him him forward into a new day.


	8. Chapter 8

Over the next few weeks, Carver finds that the easiest way to take his mind off everything is to keep himself busy. Otherwise, he fears he will fall into the easy trap of letting himself wallow. That is what his mother had called his behavior after Bethany’s death, when he had spent most of his time moping around the horrible hovel of Gamlen’s house and picking fights with his brother at the slightest provocation. Now, however, he has his duties to keep him from sinking into those habits again, which helps to ease the grieving process.

Cullen changes Carver’s schedule, and Carver knows it is the Knight-Captain’s doing because who else would see it necessary to assign him to some of the least stressful duties available to a templar? “Are you trying to baby me?” he demands to Cullen when he confronts him about the matter.

“It’s only temporary,” Cullen assures him. “I don’t want you to be worried about becoming distracted during more important tasks. I’ll put you back on your old schedule the next time that the duty rosters change.”

“I can handle everything just fine “ grumbles Carver.

He does not argue the point much further, though. Cullen is right, and it is kind of infuriating in a way. Carver has spent his entire life having his brother do similar things to him, treating him like a child under the pretense of looking out for him. Carver is more willing to accept the reasoning behind Cullen’s actions, however, because he is less smug than Garrett is and never flaunts any kind of superiority.

Carver therefore ends up doing duties that he has not done since he had been newly knighted and stuck with some of the most boring tasks a templar can do. In the mornings he oversees some of the Tranquil working in one of the storehouses, serving as a strong pair of arms when necessary. It is terribly dull work, and Tranquil do not necessarily make for good company. That does not stop one of the Tranquil from approaching him one morning in what he can only assume is casual conversation, if Tranquil are even capable of that.

“You are Ser Carver, are you not?” the Tranquil asks. He is a man about the same age as Carver, perhaps a year or two younger, which makes him not that much more than a boy. The sunburst brand on his forehead stands out against his olive skin.

“Yeah,” Carver replies, bemused as to why this Tranquil knows him. He has had minimal interaction with most of the Tranquil apart from duties like this. “What’s it to you?”

“My name is Eli. When I was still an apprentice two years ago I lost control of my magic in the apprentice quarters and you were the one who silenced me. You were still new at it.”

Carver honestly cannot remember the occasion. He remembers learning how to silence mages and the difference between things like smiting and cleansing, and he knows that he’d had to put his knowledge to practical use very quickly. He has had to use those skills far too often on mages over the past couple of years to recall specific instances.

“And you remember that?” Carver inquires. “You’re a Tranquil, I thought you would…” He gestures vaguely, not sure of how to effectively convey the idea of Eli being unable to recall anything from his pre-Tranquil past. At least Carver does not have to worry about offending him with his question.

“I still retain my memories from before the ritual. They remind me why I chose to become Tranquil.” Eli blinks owlishly at Carver with his blank, dark eyes.

“You chose it?” Carver is not required to know much about the Rite of Tranquility. The majority of ordinary templars have no involvement in the ritual.

“The senior enchanters considered me a borderline case in my ability to pass my Harrowing.” Eli remains unperturbed at Carver’s line of questioning, methodically stacking small crates as if his conversation with Carver is merely an afterthought. “I chose Tranquility because I did not wish to fall to the temptation of demons.”

“Can’t you just, I dunno, fight off the demons?”

Growing up, Carver had heard his father’s warnings to Bethany and Garrett about how they must remain vigilant in their dreams so that they can ward off any demons that threaten them in the Fade. He remembers how Bethany would sometimes crawl into his bed in the middle of the night, too frightened of demons to fall asleep. Considering the Circle’s fear of letting abominations corrupt the mages that are supposed to be under the templars’ protection, he would have thought that all necessary precautions would be taken to ensure that Circle mages know how to swiftly fend off temptation. Which, he supposes, is the general idea of what the apprentices study beyond how to control their magic, but like with all skills, some apprentices simply cannot master what is required of them.

“It is not that simple,” says Eli. “I am now more useful as a Tranquil.”

 _Useful_. Carver does not like the sound of that word. It’s as if the only purpose of the Tranquil is to be used by the templars and mages of the Circle. “So that’s it? You’re happy being used like this?”

“There is a difference between being useful and being used,” Eli explains. “I am useful because I do the tasks that others require of me, and it pleases them. In turn, I have a purpose and no longer have to avoid the temptations of demons. Therefore I am not being used.”

Carver is not sure whether he agrees with Eli’s logic, but he knows better than to argue against a Tranquil. “But don’t you miss, you know, having magic? Having emotions?”

“I cannot miss what I no longer know.” Eli moves on to stacking the larger of the crates that have been inspected and inventoried. Carver helps him lift them, putting his muscles to good work. Eli is not exactly slight, but he has the standard build of a mage: lean muscles instead of the bulk that Carver possesses after years of training with a sword.

“So why did you want to know if I was, well, me?” Carver asks. He balances a crate on his knee to get a good grip on it before reaching up to stack it on top of some of the others.

“You have a reputation among the mages and apprentices. They consider you to be one of the more merciful ones.”

Carver supposes he should have expected as much, since his treatment of the mages has been noted as unusual on the templar side of things as well. “I just do what I’m supposed to do,” he says. “Dunno what’s supposed to be so merciful about that.”

“You do not deliberately mistreat them unless you are under orders to do so,” says Eli. “Some of the other templars cannot say the same of their behavior.”

“That’s bullshit.” Anger rises up inside Carver at Eli’s words. He has heard of cases such as Ser Alrik, who bullies the mages because he is a bastard who wants to make them all Tranquil. Carver has been an utter fool , however, not to realize that the other templars are not as charitable on the subject of mages as he himself is. Even Cullen has expressed opinions about how mages are more like weapons than living beings.

“It is true.” The way that Eli looks at him unblinkingly unsettles him, and so Carver quickly busies himself with lifting another crate.

“I meant it’s unfair. Our job is to _protect_ the mages. Treating them like shit won’t help things. I mean, I understand that they can be dangerous and everything.” He had fought enough blood mages before joining the templars to understand that. In his mind, though, those kinds of blood mages are far removed from ordinary mages like his father and siblings. It was not until becoming a templar that he realized how naive he has been on the matter. “But they’re still _people_. And unless they’re some kind of direct threat, I don’t think we should treat them differently.”

“You are very strange, Ser Carver.” Hearing the observation in the flat, objective tone of Eli’s voice does not endear Carver to the statement. The Tranquil state everything as if it is a fact, and Carver is _not_ strange, thank you very much. He tries not to scowl in automatic reaction.

“Yeah, well,” he grumbles, “you don’t know anything about me.”

“Of course not, ser.”

Eli continues his work without another word. His silence, however, gives Carver’s thoughts even more opportunity to blossom and take shape. What could the other templars possibly be doing to the mages that makes Carver seem merciful in comparison? Surely it can’t be anything too terrible, apart from extremist ideologies like Ser Alrik’s. He wonders if Cullen knows. But if Cullen knows that templars frequently abused the mages in any way, wouldn’t he put a stop to it? Carver would like to think so, but doubt lingers in the corner of his mind.

He remains troubled when he goes to Cullen’s office that evening when he has no duties left to attend to. When he gains entry, he sits in his usual chair, watching the quill in Cullen’s hand skate back and forth across the piece of paper in front of him as he works on a report.

“You’re quiet today,” Cullen notes.

“I was talking to one of the Tranquil while working in the storeroom,” Carver replies, deciding to skip directly to heart of the matter. “He said I was strange for the way that I treat mages.”

“Well, if a Tranquil says it, there is not much you can do to deny it.” A small smile quirks Cullen’s mouth upward.

Of all the the times for Cullen to actually be humorous about something. “Apparently I’m different because I don’t treat the mages like shit.” Carver picks at a furrow in the arm of the chair. “I know, I know. Most other templars didn’t grow up in a family full of apostates. But we’re not supposed to do anything to the mages unless they do something wrong. That’s not exactly how things turn out, though, is it?”

He raises his eyes to look at Cullen, who has set down his quill. A slight crease of concern has appeared between Cullen’s eyebrows. “What did you hear?” he asks.

“Nothing, really. Just that some of templars apparently _do_ mistreat the mages for no reason.” Carver does not like the look on Cullen’s face. All it tells him is that he has indeed been too naive about everything. “But… if that were true, then something would be done about it, right?”

The initial lack of response from Cullen does not make him feel any better. “The difficulty about such matters,” Cullen eventually says, speaking each word carefully as if he is afraid to say something wrong, “is that the mages rarely report any incidents of abuse. So, with the exception of flagrant abuses of a templar’s power, most incidents do not come to the attention of myself or the Knight-Commander.”

“You just let them get away with it?” Carver inquires in disbelief. “That’s not fair.”

“Sometimes things cannot always play out in fairness. I’ll acknowledge that it is a major flaw in the system that templars can and often do mistreat mages with minimal punishment. But if you consider the prevailing attitude that many templars have toward mages, it isn’t surprising.”

“Like what you think about them, ser.” Carver adds the “ser” to soften his words, making them more of a statement than an accusation.

Something darkens in Cullen’s expression. “Have you ever encountered a blood mage before? Or been subject to blood magic?”

“I’ve fought them,” Carver replies, unsure of why exactly these questions are relevant. “During my first year here in Kirkwall, when my brother and I did some mercenary work for coin.” There’s also Merrill, and Carver had balked when he first saw her spill a few drops of blood from her palm to cast a spell. When Garrett had assured him that she would never use blood magic maliciously, though, Carver believed him. Merrill is far too sweet and innocent to fall prey to the darker side of blood magic.

“So you have seen the atrocities that they commit.” Cullen folds his hands together on the surface of his desk, his eyes focused on Carver. “Blood magic is forbidden by the Circle and the Chantry not only because of the danger of bringing demons into this world, but also because of the ways that it can corrupt the mind. Those who have never been subject to it rarely understand just how terrible it is. It can make one go mad in the end. Mage and victim alike.”

“Have you experienced it, then?” Carver regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth. Of _course_ Cullen has. He would not be speaking so authoritatively on the subject otherwise.

Cullen runs a hand through his hair. He exhales in a low, quiet sound. When he speaks, his voice has a different quality to it--rougher, more pained. “When the Fereldan Circle became overrun, some of the weaker templars were killed outright. But those of us who fought against the abominations were kept alive, at least for a time. They imprisoned us and broke us slowly, one by one. They would use their blood magic to implant thoughts into our mind until we could no longer determine what was reality and what was fiction. I watched dozens of templars, men and women who I called my comrades, begging for death because they could no longer endure the torment that they were subjected to. And the abominations were more than willing to give them death in the end. Their torture very nearly broke me as well, especially when I was the only one left.”

“But you can’t think that all mages are like that,” Carver points out, unsure of what else he can say in response. “I mean, you loved one once, didn’t you? The Hero of Ferelden?”

“They used her against me.” The words tremble slightly when they leave Cullen’s mouth. “They used their blood magic to sift through my mind, pulling up my memories of her and twisting them. I saw myself killing her. I saw her transforming into an abomination and killing me. They reminded me of what a grave error I had made in my attraction toward her. It was…” He scrubs a hand across his forehead. Carver sees the torment in his face and regrets more than ever that he has asked Cullen about his experiences with blood magic. “When she came back to the Circle Tower I thought it was a trick of the demons. I refused to believe that she was actually there. But she rescued me all the same. Even though I cried and begged for her to leave me to die.”

Silence falls between them. After taking a moment to regain his composure, Cullen continues onward.

“The point is,” he says, “all mages may not do such terrible acts, but they have the potential to. Every apprentice, every enchanter, every apostate. And that is why we fear them, because only mages possess that kind of power. For many templars, the only way to master that fear is to assert their authority over mages, for better or worse.”

“I don’t agree, ser,” replies Carver. Not wanting to sound like he is being too contrary, he adds, “But I’m sorry about what happened to you in the Fereldan Circle. It must have been awful for you.”

“I’ve never told anyone about what truly happened there,” admits Cullen. “But…” He hesitates before continuing on. “I am glad that I have found the strength to tell you. Because I used to be like you, concerned about the mages being treated well. After what I endured, though…” Cullen shakes his head. One of his hands clenches into a fist against the surface of the desk. “There’s no way to come back from that. Sometimes I’m ashamed of the man it has made me. As naive as you can sometimes be, Carver, your attitude makes you a far better man than I could ever be.”

Carver rises from his chair. He walks around Cullen’s desk to stand beside him and lays a hand on top of Cullen’s clenched fist. “I don’t know how much my opinion counts,” he says. “But I still think you’re brilliant.”

“Foolishly so, perhaps.” The hint of a smile returns to Cullen’s lips. He stands up, his hand entwining with Carver’s. The gesture elicits a tiny leap in the pit of Carver’s stomach.

Carver presses a kiss to the slight upward quirk of Cullen’s mouth. “You’re not busy right now, are you?” he asks. “Or if this is a bad time?”

Cullen casts a look at the partially-written report on his desk before turning his gaze back to Carver. “I suppose I could spare a moment.”

They kiss again, with Cullen gradually pushing Carver up against the desk as his tongue explores the contours of his mouth. Carver’s hands clutch onto the desk behind him for something to hold onto. His fingers brush up against whatever report Cullen has been working on as he leans back into the kiss.

“Are you still willing to do a dramatic sweep-off of your desk?” inquires Carver after they have broken their kiss.

“Well, I don’t want to spill the ink again.” Cullen reaches around Carver to grab the bottle of ink and place it safely inside a drawer. “And I have to give the report that you’re nearly sitting on to the Knight-Commander by the end of the night. I don’t think she’ll be happy if we, ah… _do things_ on top of it.”

The hesitation and faltering in Cullen’s words is strangely endearing. “But apart from that?” says Carver.

“Give us a minute to get our armor off and we have a deal.”

Carver shifts away from the desk, allowing Cullen to move the report that he has been working on to a safe location. He starts undoing the buckles of his armor, and soon he and Cullen are working in tandem to strip each other’s armor off in a routine that they have perfected by now. When they are down to only their shirts and trousers, an almost mischievous glint comes to Cullen’s eyes as he sweeps off the books and unimportant papers on his desk.

“Is that as satisfying as it looks?” asks Carver.

“Definitely,” Cullen replies, and Carver loves the crooked line of his smile.

They kiss again. Carver reclines onto the surface of the desk as best as he can, leaning back into the kiss. The positioning is a little awkward as Cullen half-supports his weight above him, but they make it work. Carver cannot hold back the quiet noise of pleasure that escapes from him as Cullen’s lips brush against his throat. His hands dig into Cullen’s back, his fingertips pressing into the fabric of his shirt and slowly making their way downward until… no, he is not going to go there. It is foolish to stop himself, though. If he can touch Cullen’s cock, then he should have no scruples in touching his arse.

He takes the figurative plunge, his hands curving around Cullen’s rear to pull their bodies closer together. In response, Cullen nuzzles his face deeper into Carver’s neck with a satisfied murmur. His teeth graze against sensitive skin before he dips his mouth further downward, his lips pressing against Carver’s collarbone.

The wooden desk creaks below them, and neither of them can escape from the very real fear that the desk is not sturdy enough to support their weight. “We should--” Carver begins, taking his hands away from Cullen to wordlessly illustrate his point.

“Ah. Right.”

Cullen lets him get off the desk. Carver’s shirt has become slightly disheveled. While he straightens it out, Cullen works on restoring everything to its proper position on his desk.

“Is that really necessary?” Carver asks. His growing desire has made him more impatient than ever.

Cullen stops in mid-motion of stacking some papers. “I suppose not,” he admits.

He takes a step closer to Carver. Carver runs his hand down the front of Cullen’s shirt, tracing the familiar lines of bone and muscle beneath it. “Do you want to…” His fingers tease against Cullen’s belt. “You know. What we usually do?”

“If you’d like. I’m…” Cullen lets out a quiet sigh of contentment at the brush of Carver’s hand against his groin.

Carver undoes Cullen’s trousers. His hand is soon on Cullen’s cock, slowly pumping it in a motion that has become all too familiar to him by now. He knows exactly what kind of touches make Cullen moan and writhe, but he never tires of pleasing him. Sometimes Carver thinks about doing more, progressing beyond using only their hands to get each other off. As much as he imagines it, however, some kind of block prevents him from actually _doing_ it. When he and Cullen have their hands on each other, Carver can easily convince himself that they are doing nothing but helping each other have a wank--nothing strange about that. Anything else, though, goes further into the territory of being in an actual sexual relationship with another man, which Carver tries to convince himself that he does not want.

For every one of those thoughts, however, he also thinks about how wonderful it would feel to have his mouth on Cullen’s cock. How he could use his tongue to draw beautiful sounds out of Cullen and _Maker_ , he wants it so badly. It shouldn’t matter that Cullen is another man, because he’s _Cullen_ , someone who Carver greatly admires and, admittedly, kind of _does_ fancy a bit. Maybe even a lot.

His body moves before his mind can tell it to stop. He sinks down to his knees and hesitates briefly, not entirely sure where to begin. Carver may have never done this to another person, but he has had it done to him (although not in a while; the ladies at the Blooming Rose usually charge extra for it) and knows what feels good. He runs his tongue along the length of Cullen’s shaft before swirling across the tip. The noise that Cullen makes verges on a whimper.

“Sorry,” Carver says. “Should I--should I not do this?”

“Maker, no,” breathes Cullen. “Keep going.”

Bolstered by Cullen’s approval, Carver closes his mouth around him, letting Cullen’s reactions guide him. He falls into a rhythm of moving his mouth up and down, using his tongue to lick and tease his Knight-Captain. Carver has discovered throughout these encounters that he can gauge how much Cullen is enjoying something by the frequency and creativity of his invocations to the Maker and Andraste. This time, when Carver gets an “Andraste’s flaming _knickers_ ” out of him, he knows he is doing well.

“Carver,” Cullen gasps. Carver loves hearing the sound of his name on Cullen’s lips, the two syllables filled with pure ecstasy. “Ah--oh, _Maker_ , I’m going to--”

With a final moan, he spends himself into Carver’s mouth. Carver freezes, having not exactly thought this part through. He remembers how some of the girls he’s been with had spit into a handkerchief afterward, which at the time he’d found odd--he would have thought that if someone was willing to suck on a cock, they would also be willing to swallow the results. The taste of semen in his mouth is _weird_ , though, even if it is Cullen’s. He doesn’t have anything handy to spit into, and so he rises from his knees and reaches blindly across Cullen’s desk to find a spare bit of paper. He grabs hold of the first one he finds and realizes too late that it has writing on it.

“I, uh… I hope this wasn’t anything important,” Carver says, holding the paper out to Cullen. He would check for himself, but it would be rude to look at Cullen’s paperwork without invitation, especially when he has just spit semen onto it.

“That was my report to the Knight-Commander.” Cullen’s voice is a combination of defeated and horrified.

Instead of apologizing like he probably should, Carver bursts into laughter. There is nothing humorous about the situation when he thinks about it, but the laughter comes anyway. It is the first time since his mother’s death that he has really laughed, and it feels… good. Freeing.

“You’re lucky I care for you.” Cullen carefully folds up the piece of paper and walking over to throw it into the fire. “And that I hadn’t written much of the report yet.”

The first part of the statement gives Carver pause. “You care for me?” he asks, not sure whether he wants to mentally explore all of the implications that come with those words.

“Well, yes.” Cullen looks sheepish as he stops in his tracks on his way back from the fireplace. “I’m sorry. If that’s too forward of me, I… I apologize. I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

“It’s okay,” Carver assures him.

Where does he go from here, however? Messing around with another man is one thing, although it raises its own set of questions. _Caring for_ another man, though… Well, the answer should be simple. As much as he tries to hide from it, he has never been able to escape from the attraction that he has felt toward Cullen ever since the first time they had kissed, maybe even before then. No matter how much his mind insists that it’s wrong to like Cullen (because he is Carver’s Knight-Captain, because he is a man) he cannot deny for much longer that what he feels for Cullen is real and inescapable.

“And I, uh.” Carver clears his throat awkwardly. “I care for you too. A lot, actually.”

Cullen steps closer to him, taking hold of both his hands. “And I am thankful for it,” he whispers, touching their foreheads together.

The gesture is so tender, and the words even more so. Something swells within Carver, and for the first time in weeks, he feels like everything is going to be all right.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Carver learns a lot about himself over the course of his next several encounters with Cullen. He learns that he definitely does not mind the taste of cock--or any other part of Cullen’s body, for that matter. He also learns that having a man suck him off is just as good as having a woman do it. Cullen can do marvelous things with his mouth, he soon discovers, and it makes him wish that they’d branched off into this realm of intimacy earlier.

The mutual admission of an emotional connection between them has awakened something deeper inside him as well. A small part of Carver remains ashamed at the degree to which he enjoys being with another man, but he has come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter. Nobody has to know that he likes sucking cocks. Nobody _should_ know either, because someone finding out about him and Cullen would be a deathblow to both of their careers as templars. When they are together in the secrecy of Cullen’s office, however, all of these concerns fall away. They become nothing more than two people who care about each other deeply, consequences be damned.

His thoughts occasionally turn to the vial that his brother has given him, which is still safely hidden away among Carver’s belongings. When Garrett had given it to him, he’d been mortified at the very idea of what it implied. Now, though, Carver is a little more curious about putting it to use. Not that he knows how he is supposed to go about that kind of thing. In theory, maybe, but not in practice. Garrett is the only person he can go to for advice on the matter, and he is _definitely_ not going to subject himself to the humiliation of his brother smirking at him while he stammers out sentiments of “So how exactly do I go about having sex with my Knight-Captain?”

He finds himself caught in a rather explicit daydream during dinner one night, even though he will soon be in Cullen’s office and _actually_ doing things with him. A group of younger knights--the same age as Carver, plus or minus a couple of years--sit next to him absorbed in gossip. Most of them have been newly knighted within the past year, and Carver had trained with them in the several-month stint he had spent as a recruit before making the rank of a fully-fledged templar. He is pretty sure that most of the group hates him for how quickly he, the Fereldan refugee nobody, became knighted. Carver normally tunes them out when their discussion turns to gossip, but the mention of Cullen piques his curiosity.

“Have you seen how happy he’s been lately?” says Ser Ruvena. “I had to deliver something to his office the other day and he actually _smiled_ at me.”

“Are you sure you didn't imagine that because you fancy him?” Ser Paxley snickers. Ruvena smacks him upside the head in response.

“Maybe he’s got a lady friend,” suggests Ser Keran.

“Doubtful,” Ser Hugh replies. “Remember when you went missing, Keran? He had to send that bloke Hawke to interrogate the ladies at the Rose because he was too embarrassed to go himself.”

Carver scowls to himself in automatic reaction to the mention of his brother. Nobody remembers that Carver had helped out with that incident as well. Why would anyone need to remember him, the less charming younger brother? It had been the first time he had met Cullen, too, if you could call awkwardly standing behind Garrett throughout the course of introductions meeting someone. He doubts that Cullen would recall him being there.

“Hey! Ser Carver!” Paxley tosses a napkin in his direction to get his attention. “You spend a lot of time with the Knight-Captain. Do you know if he’s got a lady friend?”

“No bloody idea,” Carver lies. “Why would he tell me about something like that?”

“Because you’re his lapdog,” says Ruvena. “Probably because you’re both Fereldan or something. You’re happy to be someone’s dog.”

Carver bristles. “I’m not--” he begins, but he does not even bother finishing his protest. Arguing the matter won’t do him any good. “Besides,” he says, pushing onward, “it’s none of your business whether he’s got someone, anyway.”

“Sounds like Dog-Arse is a little touchy on the subject.” Hugh laughs.

“Sod off,” Carver grumbles. The derisive nickname has followed him ever since someone had caught a glimpse of his tattoo in the baths when he’d been a recruit. Granted, every recruit gains an unflattering nickname at one point or another over the course of their training, but Carver has never been good at handling teasing.

“But if the Knight-Captain hasn’t got a lady friend,” says Keran, “then why else has he been so happy lately?”

“Maybe he’s got a _man_ friend,” Paxley suggests, his mouth full of bread. When all eyes turn to him in surprise, he shrugs. “Just a thought. Not saying he’s like that.”

Ruvena shakes her head. “He’s too pretty to like other men.” When the others laugh in response to her statement, she sighs. “Right. Like you lot don’t dream of getting into Knight-Commander Meredith’s knickers.”

“I don’t even _want_ to know what’s in her knickers,” Hugh says. “She’s too terrifying to get into bed with.”

Relieved that the conversation has turned away from Cullen, Carver resumes eating the rest of his meal and ignores the templars’ continued discussion. When the bells echo from the courtyard indicating the end of dinner, he disposes of his empty tray and rushes out of the dining hall to go to Cullen’s office. It has been weeks since Carver has had any responsibilities to attend to during the evenings. He is fairly certain Cullen is trying to find out how long he can refrain from scheduling evening duties for him before anyone takes notice.

“Good evening, ser,” Carver says once he has been permitted to enter.

“Good evening, Ser Carver.”

They keep up with formalities only when they are not behind closed doors. The moment that Carver shuts the door and they are completely alone, all pretense of protocol falls away. Cullen rises from his chair and kisses him in additional greeting, quickly jumping into physical affection.

“I feel as if almost every time you come here there is something that has you bothered.” Cullen runs a finger along the furrows of irritation that have appeared on Carver’s forehead.

“Some of the other templars are suspicious about how happy you’ve been lately,” Carver explains, figuring that Cullen deserves to know what rumors and speculation are spreading about him. “They reckon you’ve got yourself a lady friend. Or…” Carver hesitates. “A man friend.”

“Oh, Maker preserve me.” Cullen runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I was wondering when the rumors would start to spring up. This place is a breeding ground for them. Who was saying these things?”

“Ser Keran, Ser Hugh, Ser Ruvena, and Ser Paxley,” says Carver. “But don’t do anything to punish them. They’ll know I was the one who told you.” The last thing he needs is to be known as a snitch as well as the Knight-Captain’s favorite.

“Did they suspect you of anything?” Cullen asks. “I can deal with rumors that only involve me, as much as I’d like to keep my personal affairs private. But suspicion about you will only complicate matters further.”

“I’m not sure,” Carver admits. They could have easily continued talking about Cullen after he had left their company, discussing Carver’s possible influence on Cullen’s newfound happiness without having to worry about getting a rise out of him. “But I don’t think it’s much of a leap for them to make. A lot of the templars know that you’ve taken me under your wing.” And, in this case, “under Cullen’s wing” does indeed mean “into his bed.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. And I can’t blame them for noticing a change in my disposition. I _am_ happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Cullen gives him the type of secret smile that Carver only sees from him when they are alone together. The expression is less guarded than the smile that he gives to everyone else, and it shows Carver that he is the only one to whom Cullen fully reveals himself.

“But now is not the time to concern ourselves with rumors,” Cullen continues on. “There are surely other reasons why you’ve come here.”

“If by ‘other reasons’ you mean ‘messing around,’ then yeah.” Carver runs a hand down the side of Cullen’s armor. Their lips meet in another kiss, their armored bodies pressed tightly together.

“I don’t have much work left to do tonight,” says Cullen. “So if you’d like to move things into my quarters…”

“Definitely,” Carver agrees. Going into Cullen’s quarters usually means that they will be engaging in something more than a quick release. Carver doesn’t mind being fast about things, but taking their time is far more rewarding.

Once they are inside Cullen’s bedroom with the door shut as an extra precaution, they work on removing each other’s armor and robes. Carver presses kisses to the bare spots of Cullen’s skin that come into view, treasuring the quiet sighs that he can elicit from him. Even if they have done this sort of thing dozens of time by now, the thrill of having his fingers and lips on Cullen’s body has not yet worn off. Carver wonders if it will ever go away. He has never quite felt like anything like this before--and to think he would find it with his Knight-Captain, of all people.

Cullen makes the first move into more intimate contact, guiding Carver over to the bed as he makes short work of removing his trousers. He kisses him fiercely, their lips crashing together with little grace. They fall back to lie on the bed, and Cullen’s hand makes its way into Carver’s smallclothes. A ragged gasp escapes from him at the touch.

“Hey,” Carver murmurs. His hand tangles itself in Cullen’s hair as Cullen buries his face into his neck, one hand pumping against his cock. “You ever think about--” His words break off into a quiet moan.

“Hmm?” Cullen prompts him. The motion of his hand does not cease.

“You ever think about us… you know. Having sex.” It’s best for him to get straight to the point, not mincing words regarding his curiosities. “Beyond what we usually do, that is.”

“Yes.” The unhesitating reply surprises him. Cullen moves his lips away from Carver’s throat. A tinge of pink on his cheeks is now visible. “I suppose you… I mean, _do_ you think about it too?”

Carver has witnessed Cullen blushing and fumbling for words before, but now is no less endearing than the first time he had seen it. “Yeah, I do,” he admits. “Do you, uh…Do you think about me taking you? Or… you taking me?” Their conversation is quickly shifting from curiosity to borderline dirty talk, and Carver is no good at the latter.

“Both,” says Cullen. He continues to stroke Carver’s cock.

“What, at the same time?” Carver may not be an expert when it comes to penetrative sex between men, but he is fairly certain that something like that is not possible.

“Oh, Maker, no.” Cullen laughs. “It… changes. Depending on where my thoughts take me.”

“And what are you thinking right now?” asks Carver. He holds back a quiet gasp in response to the slow, steady motion of Cullen’s hand.

“I’m thinking…” Cullen hesitates. He looks distinctly embarrassed, but in a Carver-can’t-believe-his-Knight-Captain-is-secretly-adorable kind of way. “Right now I’m wondering what it would be like to take you. To be inside you. If…” He hesitates. “If you’ll agree to it.”

“Yeah. I mean, either way one of us is going to have to, well. Have a cock up the arse.” Carver cannot think of a more delicate way of putting it. “And I’ve thought about it happening like that too. Sometimes.” He’d initially been ashamed of thinking about having another man penetrate him, but after some thought he has come to the conclusion that if he is going to do that with someone, it might as well be with his Knight-Captain. His kind-of hero. His _Cullen_.

“So. I suppose that settles it.” Cullen sounds surprisingly businesslike about the matter. “Like I said before, I don’t have much to attend to right now. So if you’d like to use this moment to… try it out, I suppose?”

“Yeah,” Carver agrees. He remembers the vial in his quarters. “Except--I guess there’s this oil that you’re supposed to use during sex with a man to, you know, make it easier. My brother gave me some. I have it in my quarters.” He tries not to get too flushed at the memory of Garrett’s smirk when he’d given him the vial. “So if you’ll let me go get it…”

“Yes. That would be… yes.” Cullen eases his weight away from him. Carver remains very much aroused, which is incredibly inconvenient when it comes to putting his armor on once more. At least his armor and robe do a good job at hiding an erection. He supposes that is an advantage to having to be in uniform at all times between morning and curfew.

He suspects that he has a couple of his armor pieces on upside-down, and he has the buckles done up as loosely as possible, but he doesn’t care. He hurries out of Cullen’s office to reach his quarters. To his relief, no one else is in the room when he arrives. He rummages through his personal belongings until he retrieves the vial. Upon ascertaining that he has not accidentally taken one of his lyrium rations, he tucks it away in his pocket and rushes back to Cullen.

“Here.” He sets it on the nightstand. “For whenever we need it.”

After Carver has removed his armor once more, they work on stripping each other of their shirts and trousers. It is a rare occasion that they actually have the time to be completely unclothed during their encounters. Carver trails kisses across the expanse of Cullen’s bare chest as he strokes his cock to full hardness. Cullen then takes control, gently pushing Carver down onto the bed. He kisses up Carver’s thigh, nosing past his balls before taking his cock into his mouth. Carver’s hands instinctively fist against the blanket in response to the motion of Cullen’s mouth against him.

“Maker, _yes_ ,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop.”

Cullen obliges. Carver wants to close his eyes, giving into the pure pleasure of Cullen’s actions. The sight of his Knight-Captain so focused on pleasing him, though, keeps Carver’s eyes fixed on him. One of his hands strokes through Cullen’s hair, pulling on the slight curl of the strands to urge him on.

When Cullen takes his mouth away from him, the sound of protest that Carver makes borders on a whine. He supposes all of this has been more of a warm-up than anything else, allowing them to relax into the arousal and mutual comfort required for what they plan to do.

Cullen reaches for the vial on the nightstand, studying it intently. “Your brother gave you this?” he asks.

“Can we please not talk about my brother right now?” Carver grumbles. Nothing will destroy his arousal faster than thinking about his brother doing things like this--and how he has most recently done them with _Fenris_ , no less.

Cullen gives a quiet chuckle. “Yes. Of course.” He hesitates before continuing with, “So, if you want to turn over, we can…” His words trail off into an unspoken understanding of what comes next.

Carver shifts so that he is on his stomach, his legs spread apart and his knees pulled slightly inward. A wave of self-consciousness hits him. He and Cullen have never previously used a position like this, and it makes Carver feel open and exposed. He trusts Cullen, however, especially when Cullen leans forward to press a kiss to his shoulderblade before unscrewing the lid of the vial.

Cullen uses his fingers first, coating them with the oil before slowly sliding one inside Carver. The sensation is strange, at least at first, until Carver becomes accustomed to the intrusion. He presses his face into Cullen’s pillow to stifle his moan when a burst of pleasure ripples through his body. Even a few weeks ago, he would have been ashamed about being aroused from having something up his arse, but he has now realized that there shouldn’t be anything shameful about doing this with someone he cares for.

Cullen later adds a second finger, taking his time to prepare him. When he eventually replaces his fingers with his slicked-up cock, Carver grits his teeth against the dull pain.

“Slower,” he tells Cullen.

As Cullen gradually sheaths himself inside him, he brings his hands to the small of Carver’s back, massaging the skin and muscle there to keep him relaxed. Quiet whispers of “Is this good?” and “Yeah” pass between them before Cullen begins to slowly rock his hips.

Carver is soon making noises that he never knew that he was capable of making as they fall into a comfortable rhythm. A steady stream of “Oh, Maker” and “fuck” and “yes” pours forth from his mouth. Cullen’s own gasped words of pleasure echo him, containing fewer profanities and more divine invocations. Cullen reaches around to take hold of Carver's cock, rubbing it in time with his thrusts until Carver feels ready to burst.

With an incoherent cry that is supposed to resemble Cullen’s name, Carver reaches his climax. He has left a stain on Cullen’s bedsheets, and the part of him that is still capable of rational thought hopes that Cullen won’t mind. He can hear Cullen’s gasps of breath behind him as the Knight-Captain approaches his own orgasm. The sound that Cullen makes when he comes not long afterwards is something that Carver will never tire of.

He collapses, boneless, onto the bed once Cullen has pulled his softening cock out of him. Cullen rises from his position and returns a few seconds later with a damp cloth for cleanup. Cleaning up is a bit more embarrassing than Carver expects, but he is too absorbed in the high that has followed his orgasm to care too much.

After they have both wiped themselves clean, they lie curled up together with Carver spooned up against Cullen's chest. “You okay?” Cullen asks him, running a hand up and down Carver's side.

“Yeah,” Carver replies. “Might be a little sore for a while, but it was worth it.”

“Good.” Cullen presses a kiss into Carver's hair, nuzzling against him. “By the way. I wasn’t aware that you have a tattoo. ”

Carver wonders why Cullen has never pointed it out before, but then he realizes that until today Cullen has never been in a good position to see it. “I got it before Ostagar,” he says. “A lot of us did. In solidarity, I guess.”

“A mabari,” says Cullen as he runs a finger along the image inked onto Carver’s skin. “To inspire strength, right?”

“Yeah. That was the idea.”

Joy rises inside him at Cullen’s understanding of the tattoo’s meaning. It must take another Fereldan to appreciate it. Those from the Free Marches and beyond don’t quite understand the symbolic significance of the mabari in Fereldan culture. He remembers bringing up his tattoo in a feeble attempt to make conversation with Fenris a few years back while they had been traipsing around the city with Garrett. He’d only been met with irritation from Fenris, an exasperated sigh from Garrett, and a gleeful response of “I’d like to see it wag” from Isabela. Garrett had also mocked him incessantly when he had first learned that Carver had gotten the tattoo, saying things like “of _course_ my baby brother would get something tattooed on his arse.” Admittedly, Carver _does_ regret its location now that he is no longer the idiot eighteen-year-old he had been when he had gotten it.

“We used up almost all of your oil,” Cullen says. “Can you get more? In case we want to do this again. I mean, if you’d like to, that is.”

“I reckon I can get some more from my brother if I ask nicely.” Of course, Garrett’s response will include smiling smugly and never letting him hear the end of it, but Carver begrudgingly accepts it as a fair tradeoff. “I have a free day tomorrow. I’ll get it then.”

“Perfect.” Cullen nestles himself even closer to Carver. “You are… This is all I could ever want, right here. Feeling… this.”

“And what is ‘this’?” Carver isn’t good at feelings, especially when they regard his Knight-Captain. The only emotions that he is good at are jealousy and resentment toward his brother.

“I’m not sure,” Cullen admits. “But it makes me feel happier than I’ve felt in a long time.”

“Me too.”

Carver breathes out a sigh of contentment. He may not be able to articulate the exact nature of his feelings, but for now, being with Cullen like this is everything to him. He turns his head to meet Cullen’s lips in a kiss, and in this moment, everything is enough.


	10. Chapter 10

Carver has not been to the family estate since his mother’s death. Several days off have come and gone, but he has not yet been able to bring himself to go there. The only reason he used to go was to see his mother. As much as Garrett could use the company nowadays, his brother is better off seeking companionship from his friends. Or at least that is what Carver tells himself.

The walk to Hightown is more painful than he expects. Automatic thoughts about what his mother will cook for him pass through his mind before he remembers that, no, she won’t be there to make him a meal. The ache that passes through him at the realization is almost enough to make him regret his decision to finally revisit the estate. He pushes these thoughts aside and presses onward.

“Is my brother home?” he asks Orana when she answers the door at the estate as usual. If Garrett is out of the house, then this journey will have been for nothing.

“Yes,” she replies, much to Carver’s relief. “Please come in.”

He enters into the main room of the house while Orana calls for Garrett. As he walks over to the chairs in front of the fire, he notices his mother’s blanket draped across the back of one of the chairs. Carver runs his fingers through the woven strands that comprise it, forcing down the lump that rises in his throat that reminds him that she is gone. The blanket even continues to carry her scent, the warm, floral fragrance that would always welcome him home when she embraced him.

“Carver,” comes the sound of his brother’s voice. Carver looks up to acknowledge him, stepping away from the chair. “What brings you here?”

Deciding to get the awkward moment over with as quickly as possible, Carver produces the nearly-empty vial from his pocket. “I, uh… I was wondering if you could give me more.” He deliberately looks away from Garrett, not wanting to see his reaction.

His brother lets out a hearty burst of laughter. “Well! You’ve certainly been busy, baby brother. I didn’t think you’d have the balls to actually need to use this. I suppose congratulations are in order for you and your Knight-Captain. It _was_ with Cullen, wasn’t it?”

Carver turns his eyes back to Garrett to find him looking at him questioningly, seeking clarification on the matter. “It’s none of your business,” he grumbles.

“Did you praise his Maker?” Garrett asks, and there’s that smirk that Carver wants to punch off his face. “I got that one from Isabela.”

“None of your business,” Carver repeats, more aggressively this time.

“Unless he praised _your_ Maker?” When Carver does not deign to respond, Garrett takes his silence as an affirmative answer. “Oh, sweet Andraste. He did, didn’t he? I _thought_ you were walking a little funny just now.”

“I hate you,” Carver mutters, wishing that he could be anywhere else right now. Even going to Anders’s clinic to replenish the vial would be more preferable right now, although Anders would probably end up releasing Justice on him or something. “Look, can you give me the stuff or not?”

“Yes, yes, no need to get all grouchy about it. Come with me.”

Carver follows his brother upstairs to his bedroom. On the way, they pass Sandal playing with the dog, clapping his hands and exclaiming “Enchantment!” whenever the dog does something interesting.

“Teach him any new tricks yet, Sandal?” Garrett asks.

“Enchantment,” Sandal replies happily.

Carver has no idea what this is supposed to mean. He has never understood the dwarven boy's simple ways. Garrett, however, chuckles appreciatively.

“Good lad,” he says, clapping Sandal on the shoulder before he and Carver continue on to the master bedroom.

Carver stands sheepishly in the doorway as Garrett goes over to his nightstand and opens one of the drawers. “You know, I ought to start charging you for this stuff if you’re going to make a habit out of needing to get it from me,” his brother says. He returns to where Carver stands and handing him a new vial of oil. This one is bigger than the other one that Garrett gave him.

“Like you need any more coin,” Carver grumbles. He puts the vial in his pocket with the mostly-emptied one.

“Tell you what. I’m meeting some friends at the Hanged Man in a bit. Come with me and buy me a drink, and we’ll call it even.”

“Which friends?” asks Carver, trying to determine how terrible the experience will be. He isn’t in the mood to have Anders glaring at him while refusing to shut up about the oppression of mages. Nor does he want to listen to Fenris antagonizing Anders and Merrill until Garrett tells him to cut it out. Of course, the dynamics between Garrett’s companions could have very well changed over the past few years, but Carver highly doubts that.

“Varric, Isabela, Merrill. Hopefully Fenris. I invited everyone else too, but they’re all busy.”

“I guess I can live with that,” says Carver. He likes the first three the best out of Garrett’s friends, anyway. Fenris he can take or leave, but maybe Fenris and his brother being involved with each other will have softened the elf’s prickly exterior slightly.

“Excellent.” Garrett grins. “They’ll be pleased to see you, no doubt. It’s been a while.”

“Provided they don’t rip me to pieces for becoming a templar,” Carver points out. Anders is the only one who would take offense to it, though. Merrill, although also an apostate, is too oblivious to see why Carver being a templar is a problem.

“Isabela may make some comment about your newfound love for women’s clothing, but other than that, I think you’ll be fine.”

Carver scowls. “There’s nothing _womanly_ about a templar robe.”

“Tell it to her, not to me.” Garrett raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Anyway, I’ve still got a little time until I’m supposed to meet them. Maybe I can have Orana makes us some tea in the meantime?”

“Yeah, sure,” agrees Carver.

They return downstairs. While his brother calls for Orana, Carver seats himself in front of the fire. As much as he wants to sit in the chair with his mother’s blanket on it, he suspects that Garrett has designated it as his own. Either that, or no one is allowed to sit in it as some kind of preservation of her memory.

“Why do you have Mother’s blanket here?” Carver asks him after he has returned the room and sat down.

A small crease of lingering grief appears between his brother’s brows. “It’s cold in the mornings when the fire’s just started up,” he replies. “I use it to keep warm.”

Carver doubts that Garrett is being fully honest. He has spent his entire life in the company of mages and knows that they can use their magic to get a fire started and have it heating the house more quickly than anyone else. He does not want to press his brother on the matter, though, and so he lets the subject drop.

“Now, I know you’re going to keep saying it’s none of my business,” Garrett says. “But as your elder brother I feel obligated to ask. Does Cullen treat you well? Is he a good lover?”

“He’s not my lover,” Carver counters, trying hard not to sound too offended.

“You’ve made love to him. That pretty much makes you his lover, whether you want to call it that or not.” Garrett settles back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully before he speaks again. “Look. I know how easy it is to be in denial about this sort of thing. I’ve been there myself. And even if it’s not a matter of admitting that you’re interested in men in general like it was for me, you shouldn’t be ashamed to acknowledge that there seems to be something between you and Cullen. Because I highly doubt whatever it is just physical.”

Carver _really_ doesn’t want to be having this conversation right now. It’s as if his brother doesn’t realize that Carver has been thinking about these things for weeks now, fighting the constant battle of whether he should be ashamed of the things he does with Cullen. None of it is as easy as placing his feelings into the categories of “denial” and “acceptance.” If it were that simple, Carver would have figured things out long ago.

“You really won’t leave things well enough alone even when I tell you that it’s none of your business, will you?” he grouses.

“I’m just looking out for you, baby brother.” Another grin crosses Garrett’s expression. “And if he does anything to break your heart, he’s going to regret it.” Tiny flames shoot up between his fingers, showing the nature of his threat in an idle motion. Carver feels the magic’s presence like a hot burst of energy that calls out to the lyrium in his veins.

“I think _you’re_ the one who would end up in more trouble for using magic on the Knight-Captain of the Gallows,” he points out.

“Then he’d better not do anything to hurt you.” His brother maintains his good-humored smile, reminding Carver that despite his threats, he would never actually hurt someone unless the situation becomes dangerous. “Although I suppose being sore from sex doesn’t count for that. Seriously, how big _is_ he? You look like you’re sitting on eggshells.”

Carver splutters and then scowls, deciding that he does not have to dignify this with a response beyond a muttered “You are unbelievable.”

Garrett laughs. “In all seriousness, though. Sometimes a warm bath helps. I can run one for you if there’s time before you have to go back to the Gallows. If you’d like.”

“Fine,” Carver relents, only because it has been ages since he has had a nice bath beyond hurriedly scrubbing himself down in the shared baths in the Gallows.

Orana arrives with the tea soon after. Upon taking a sip, Carver discovers that the taste is slightly sweeter than what Orana usually makes. There is a hint of--yes, that is definitely honey. Garrett must have told her that he prefers his tea not so flavorless. A strange sort of gratitude passes through him, one that almost makes up for all the rubbish that his brother has said today.

After they have finished their tea, Garrett goes up to his bedroom and emerges wearing the light plates of armor that he commonly wears when leaving the house. He has inherited the armor from their father, who often wore it instead of a mage’s robes in order to protect his identity, and it is lightweight enough to be practical for spellcasting while still providing adequate protection. He also sheaths a small dagger at his waist. Lowtown isn’t too dangerous during the day, but Carver suspects he has grown more cautious since their mother’s death. Garrett must not be too concerned, though, or else he would bring his staff, no matter how dangerous it is for him to walk around Kirkwall in broad daylight with a mage’s weapon strapped to his back.

They depart from the estate after Garrett has instructed Orana to tell any visitors that he will return in a few hours. As they walk through Hightown and descend into Lowtown, Carver thinks about all the time that he spent following his brother around Kirkwall, running errands and doing favors for coin. The stench of piss and unwashed bodies in Lowtown remains the same, but Carver and Garrett have changed so much--Carver a templar, Garrett a member of Kirkwall’s nobility, and both of them now trying to carry on after the loss of their mother. The thought of how much is different after three years sobers him a little.

It has been a couple of years since Carver has been in the Hanged Man, but it continues to be the wretched hive that he remembers. “I feel like this is the opening to a bad joke,” Garrett comments as they enter. “A mage and a templar walk into a pub. The templar buys the mage a drink because he owes him for giving him the stuff that will allow him to continue comfortably bedding his Knight-Captain.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Carver sighs in exasperation. “And if you say a _word_ to your friends about me and Cullen, you’re dead.”

“That’s why I said _bad_ joke,” says Garrett. “And don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

The sound of a jovial voice calling to Garrett interrupts them from further conversation. Carver turns to see Varric walking toward them. “You’re early,” the dwarf says. “Usually you come rushing in here from some other monumentally important thing that you’ve been doing.”

“I haven’t had a lot to do today, surprisingly,” Garrett replies. “And, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve brought somebody along.” He nods to Carver.

“Well, if it isn’t Junior.” Varric clasps hands with Carver in greeting. “It’s been a while.”

“Hello, Varric.” He has always hated Varric’s nickname for him and how it reinforces the idea of Carver being the inferior version of his brother. Varric insists that he doesn’t change nicknames after coming up with them, however, and so Carver is stuck with the name.

“I was very sorry to hear about your mother,” says Varric. “May she rest in peace.”

“Thank you.” Carver swallows hard against the emotions that threaten to rise up inside him.

“Anyway,” Varric continues on, “when Hawke said you’d joined the templars I didn’t believe him. It seems to suit you well enough, though.”

“Yes, my mage-hunting baby brother. We’re all so very proud.” Garrett’s good-natured laugh softens the biting sarcasm of his words. He gives Carver a light punch on the shoulder. Carver shoves him back, scowling.

“Isabela’s already got our regular table.” Varric gestures to the back of the pub. “Hope you can still keep up with our drinking, Junior.”

“Was I ever _not_ able to keep up with you?” Carver points out.

“Fair point,” chuckles Varric.

They all walk over to the table where Isabela is waiting for them. “Look who Hawke brought along,” Varric announces to her.

“Carver!” She grins at him, looking him up and down to size him up. “You’re almost a man now.”

Carver is about to object, but then he remembers that Isabela has not seen him since he was nineteen-and-a-bit years old, in the strange state between boyhood and manhood. He _has_ changed since then, he supposes. He likes to think that the years he has spent as a templar have changed him for the better, at least.

“You haven’t changed,” he replies.

Isabela laughs. “I never change.”

She leans forward slightly to rest her chin in a hand. Her breasts seem larger than Carver remembers, perhaps because he never sees half-covered breasts and ample cleavage in the Gallows. A flush of red rushes to his cheeks when he realizes he is looking straight at them, and he quickly averts his eyes.

“Aww, how sweet,” she says. “The puppy still blushes like a schoolgirl.”

Carver scowls. “I’m not a puppy. _Or_ a schoolgirl.”

“This isn’t because you’ve been going without, is it?” Isabela asks. “Wait, don’t tell me you’re one of those templars who’s taken a vow of chastity. Because that’s just a waste, if you ask me.”

She winks. A few years ago, Carver would have been thrilled to get attention from her like this, but now it only makes him uncomfortable.

“I don’t think we have to worry about Carver not getting laid,” says Garrett, sounding highly amused at the direction that the conversation has taken. He sits down at the table across from Isabela. “He’s _taken_ things much bigger than a vow of chastity lately. I don’t think he’d allow a vow like that to _dic_ tate his life, if you get my meaning.”

His choice of words sounds peculiar to Carver at first until he realizes the innuendo in them. “Brother,” he groans. He sits down on the bench as well, wincing at the hardness of the wood.

Isabela gives an excited little cackle. “Ooh! You’ve been with a _man_? You should have mentioned that from the start.”

“It’s certainly unexpected,” says Varric. “Looks like I’m going to have to rewrite some of my stories now.”

“Wait. You’ve written _stories_ about me?” This discussion has gone from bad to worse. He glares at Garrett. “This is your fault, isn’t it?”

“Everyone likes stories about an underdog.” Varric shrugs indifferently. “The underappreciated younger brother who joins the templars to make a name for himself. Originally I had your character entering into a forbidden tryst with a bosomy female knight, but I think I may have to change that to a dashingly handsome male knight. There’s a surprisingly large market out there for gay templar stories, you know.”

“I’m not--” Carver begins. Before he can finish the thought, however, Merrill’s arrival interrupts him.

“Hello,” she says cheerily. “Did I miss anything?”

“No,” Carver replies. He silences Garrett with an elbow to the ribs before he can say anything. “You’ve missed nothing whatsoever.”

Merrill fixes her huge elven eyes upon him, blinking in disbelief. “Oh! It’s Carver!” she exclaims, as if she has only just recognized him. She embraces him, although she can barely get her arms around him when he has his armor on. The potency of the aura of magic that surrounds her nearly knocks Carver off the bench. It feels like the air before a storm on a summer’s day, and there is something darker hiding within it--traces of her blood magic.

“We’ve all missed you terribly, you know,” she says once she has let go of him. “Is being a templar as dreadful as it sounds? Hawke says it would be dreadful. Is it difficult being a templar after having been so friendly to mages?”

“Merrill,” Garrett’s voice is a combination of friendly and reprimanding. It reminds Carver so much of a tone that their father would use. “Don’t overwhelm him. He’s just here to drink with us.”

“Speaking of drinks,” says Isabela as Merrill seats herself at the table. “I’m ready to start. Who’s buying the first round? Or are we waiting for anyone else?”

“Fenris said he was coming.” A slight frown crosses Garrett’s expression. He turns his head toward the door, as if hoping to see him coming into the pub. “I talked to everyone else yesterday, and they all said they’d be busy. We should wait for Fenris, though.”

The desperately hopeful way that his brother says Fenris’s name disgusts Carver. Garrett seems to be positively _smitten_ with the elf, and it’s sickening. At least Fenris does not seem like the sort who would permit public displays of affection. Otherwise Carver isn’t certain whether he can stand being at the same table as both of them

“Broody will be here in no time, Hawke. Don’t worry,” Varric assures him. “It’s not like he has anything better to do.”

Almost as if Varric’s words have summoned him, when Carver next glances at the door to the pub he sees that Fenris has walked in. Fenris does not _walk_ as much as he _skulks_ , however, his body hunched forward slightly and his mouth set in a perpetual scowl, as if the entire world has done something to piss him off. An unusual splash of color in the form of a red handkerchief tied around one of his wrists contrasts against his usual monochrome armor.

“Am I late?” he asks. Carver expects him to sit down next to Garrett, but instead he seats himself on the other side of the table next to Isabela. It’s a departure from the display that Carver expects, which would be his brother showing some kind of gesture of affection toward Fenris whether he approves of it or not.

“You’re just in time, actually.” Garrett grins and then nudges Carver. “Carver, you’re buying the first round.”

“What?” Carver demands. “You said I only had to buy you a drink. I’m not buying for all of them too.”

“Remember.” Garrett pokes his shoulder. “There’s a lot more that I can tell them about who you’ve been bedding. You’d best watch yourself.”

“Oh, but you can’t just leave us with that,” Isabela insists. “Now we’re curious.”

Carver puts his head down on the table to avoid having to look at everyone. “For the love of the Maker,” he mutters in irritation.

He ends up buying the first round anyway. His coin purse would object, except he doesn’t need to buy much these days thanks to what the Templar Order provides for him. Of course, the ale at the Hanged Man continues to taste like piss, but he still drinks it. If the others can put it up with on a regular basis, then so can he.

Carver has lost count of what round of drinks they are on when Garrett starts telling stories about his and Carver’s youth in Lothering. “So one day I was doing some work for our neighbor Barlin, cleaning out a shed on his property,” he begins. “And suddenly I heard a noise coming from behind the shed.”

“Brother, no,” Carver protests. “You are _not_ telling this story.”

“I thought, ‘Well, maybe it’s an animal or something, I’d best see what’s going on,’” Garrett continues on, ignoring him. “Except soon this animal started to sound very _sexual_. I rounded the corner and there’s Carver, his trousers halfway down, getting thoroughly serviced by one of the girls from the village. Neither of them noticed that I was there, so I cleared my throat and said something like ‘So this is what King Cailan’s soldiers do on their days off?’ Carver turned the most hilarious shade of red that I have ever seen and ran off, his trousers still partly undone, and the girl was right behind him. When I got back to the house later that day I wouldn’t let him hear the end of it. Bethany was so scandalized when she heard. But _she_ wasn’t the one who had to see it.”

Everyone laughs, even Fenris. Carver scowls down into his mug of ale. “I don’t know why you all find that story so funny,” he grumbles.

“Because naked stories are always the best,” replies Isabela. “Embarrassing naked stories are even better.”

“You shouldn’t talk,” Carver retorts. “You’re _always_ half-naked.”

“And thus everything I do makes for a good story. Right, Varric?” She raises her mug to him.

“Truer words have never been spoken, Rivaini,” he replies, accepting her toast.

“Well,” says Garrett. “As much as I don’t want to break up this little party, our templar friend can’t stay out too late. We’ve got some business left to attend to at the estate before he has to go back to the Gallows.”

What business? The thought puzzles Carver until he remembers that his brother has promised him use of his bathtub. A bath definitely sounds good right now after having sat on the hard bench for a couple of hours.

“Oh, do you _have_ to go right now?” Merrill gives an adorable little frown, which reminds Carver why he used to kind of fancy her. “It’s been so lovely having you around again. Will you come visit again soon?”

“I dunno. Maybe.” Carver suspects the answer is actually “not very likely,” due to the limited time that he has off compared to the availability of his brother’s friends. He can’t bring himself to say no to Merrill, though.

“Always a pleasure to have you with us, Junior,” says Varric. “Glad the templars haven’t changed you too much.”

“Shame we never got to find out more about your secret lover, though,” Isabela adds, downing the rest of her drink. She wipes her mouth. “Maybe next time we’ll get you drunk enough to admit it.”

“Doubt it,” Carver mutters.

“I must leave too,” Fenris says. He rises from where he has been sitting. “I have business to attend to as well.”

His “business” better not involve Garrett, or if it does, it should at least wait until after Carver has left. They all give their final goodbyes to each other, and then Carver and his brother leave the pub with Fenris following close behind. Garrett falls into step with Fenris as they make their way back to Hightown. Carver hears their muted words from behind him, something about Fenris coming over later in the evening for “reading lessons.” Carver tries to tune them out. Even if his brother and Fenris aren’t being overly sappy, he doesn’t want to hear it.

They part ways not far from the estate. Garrett does not give Fenris any kind of physical goodbye, which is surprising. It can’t be to spare Carver from seeing them exchange gestures of affection. In the past, Garrett has had no qualms in kissing other men in front of him. Is Fenris truly so reserved, or is something else at play?

“If you still want that bath,” says Garrett once they have entered the estate, “I can start filling the tub for you.”

“Yeah, that’d be brilliant,” Carver agrees.

His brother disappears to take care of starting the bath. Orana offers Carver some soup that she has made, and Carver accepts it, having not eaten much at the Hanged Man. After he has finished the quick meal, he goes to join his brother. Garrett sits on the stool beside the tub, flames pouring forth from his hands as he heats the water. The sight brings Carver a burst of nostalgia, remembering how their father would do so in Lothering. Garrett and Bethany would help him sometimes, once they were good enough with their magic. Carver would watch with envy as the three Hawke mages worked together, their flames fusing as one.

“It’s not quite warm enough yet,” Garrett tells him.

Carver busies himself by taking off his armor, deciding to take care of the most difficult part of undressing first. An internal debate rages inside him regarding whether he should ask his brother about what is happening between him and Fenris and why they aren’t as sickeningly sweet about their courtship as Carver expects. Garrett has asked him plenty of awkward questions about Cullen, though, and so he deserves a taste of his own treatment.

“What’s going on between you and Fenris?” he asks, refusing to dabble in subtleties.

“What do you mean?” replies Garrett.

“I thought you and him were supposed to be lovers or something.”

His brother turns to face him, his eyebrows raised. The lyrium in Carver’s body sings at the spike in Garrett’s magic that comes in response to this accusation. Maybe Carver shouldn’t have done this when Garrett has fire coming out of his hands.

“Who told you that?” his brother inquires.

“A while ago, Mother mentioned it. She said you’d ‘taken up with him,’ whatever that means.”

Garrett sighs. “Maker rest her soul and everything, but I can’t believe she told you about that.” He shifts slightly on the stool that he sits on. “And I wouldn’t exactly say I’ve taken up with him. We had sex, once. We’ve spent a fair bit of time together since then, because I’m teaching him to read, but we haven’t really discussed what exactly is going on between us. Or why he walked out on the night that we spent together.”

“So why don’t you ask him about it?” asks Carver. Even _he_ knows that would be the next logical step, and he is far from an expert on this kind of thing.

“It’s not that simple,” is all his brother says in response. He lets the flames that he has created die out and dips a hand into the bathwater to test the temperature. “It should be warm enough now. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He leaves the room without another word, closing the door behind him. Carver strips off the rest of his clothing and steps into the bathtub. As he slowly sinks down to immerse himself in the water, he gives a sigh of contentment. The warm water does indeed do a lot to relieve the soreness that he continues to experience.

Thoughts of what his brother has told him fill his mind. Garrett not having any official relationship with Fenris definitely explains his behavior: his concern about whether Fenris would drink with them and the longing way he says Fenris's name. Usually it is Carver who is desperately flailing his way through getting himself a girl, whereas Garrett is bedding every man in sight with no difficulty. Now Garrett is the one struggling while Carver has been having consistent sexual interaction with Cullen for weeks. Which means that for the first time in his life, he is having more sex than his brother is.

And that, Carver realizes, is a small victory that will keep him happy for a long time.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited on 4/22/15 to change a couple details of Cullen's backstory to match what was revealed in _World of Thedas Vol. 2_.

When Carver returns to the Gallows in the evening, he has just enough time to stop by his quarters before the bell rings for dinner. He finds a folded piece of paper on his bed, and so he sits down and unfolds it to read its contents.

_Carver,_

_I hope you’ll find this note when you return. I have asked it to be delivered to your quarters and I can only hope that those instructions will be followed. If you do not mind, I would like you to join me for dinner in my quarters tonight. Please come soon after you have received this note._

_Cullen_

Dinner with Cullen: now that is certainly new. Other than when they had eaten breakfast together on that one morning that Cullen had admitted that he had some sort of attraction toward him, Carver has never shared a meal with him. He wonders if any particular occasion has prompted Cullen’s request.

After remembering to take his evening dose of lyrium, Carver goes to Cullen’s office, ignoring the bell that summons him to the dining hall. He knocks on the door, and Cullen’s response of “Come in” invites him inside.

Carver opens the door. “Knight-Captain,” he greets him.

“Ser Carver,” Cullen replies. He looks up from the piece of paper that he has been writing on. “You’re just in time. Dinner is waiting for us in my quarters.”

Carver closes the door behind him, watching as Cullen sets aside his quill and stands up from his desk. He follows Cullen into the next room. The smell of a freshly cooked meal assaults his senses--thick cuts of meat, boiled potatoes, and steamed vegetables. If only Carver could eat like this in the Gallows all the time.

“How was your day off?” Cullen asks him as they begin to eat. “I assume you visited your brother, considering you, ah… said you needed to get something from him.”

“Yeah. And I got it. I reckon I’ll just leave it here until we, well. Need it again.” Carver shovels a bite of potatoes into his mouth. They are not as good as what his mother made, but nothing will ever come close to that. “Why’d you invite me to eat with you? It looked like you were in the middle of something when I came in.”

“It was nothing important,” says Cullen. “Or rather…” A small smile quirks his lips upward. Maker, Carver loves that smile. “Someone else may consider it important, but it falls near the bottom of my own priorities. It was a letter from my sister, you see. She gets terribly cross when I forget to write her. You should have seen the letter that she sent me when she found out I’d neglected to tell her I’d been transferred to Kirkwall.”

“I didn’t know you have a sister.” If Cullen has previously mentioned that detail, Carver has forgotten it. It seems like an oversight for him to have not said anything about his family, considering how often Carver talks about his own siblings (or at least his brother; Bethany is still a dull ache that he doesn’t like mentioning much).

“I have two, actually. Mia is three years my elder, and Rosalie is four years my junior. I also have a younger brother, Branson, although there is not much more than a year and a half between us. It was a very loud household, growing up.” Cullen gives a brief chuckle. He sips from his cup. Both cups contain fairly weak ale, which is still leagues better than the swill Carver had consumed at the Hanged Man.

“Yeah, I can relate to that,” Carver replies. “My brother was loud enough for the three of us.” Stupid teenage Garrett, stomping around the house with his magic. At least Bethany was never constantly testing the limits of her abilities, scaring the wits out of their mother until their father intervened.

“Between the four of us, there was always something that was being argued over.” Cullen smiles fondly at the memory, although Carver isn’t sure how he can have fond memories of sibling disputes. “I’m afraid that we all bullied poor Rosalie from time to time, and Mia often took far too much pleasure in ordering the rest of us around. But even at our worst I respected her, even though she could get so smug about things sometimes.”

“I think it’s the job of the eldest sibling to be smug.” Carver tries the vegetables on his plate. They are not as flavorful as he expects, but they are plenty more appetizing than the sad, limp excuses for vegetables served in the dining hall. “My brother’s got this stupid smug smirk that he gets on his face whenever he’s having a laugh at my expense. I hate it so much.”

Cullen laughs. “Yes, that sounds exactly like Mia.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “She taught me how to play chess when I was… hmm. Eight or nine years old, I believe. I was awful at it at first, and she took so much pleasure in winning every game. So I taught Branson to play and practiced with him until I felt like I was good enough to win against her. She was completely flabbergasted when I finally beat her. The look on her face was more than worth it.”

“Wish I had a chance to show my brother up like that,” Carver grumbles. “I guess I’m better than him with a sword, but that’s about it. With everything else, he’s always been better than me, and he makes sure to let me know it. I mean, it’s not I hate him for it or anything.” Recent events have proven more than ever that Garrett will always be there for Carver when he needs him the most. “But it doesn’t stop him from being a pain in the arse all the time.”

“What about your sister?” Cullen inquires. “I apologize if that’s a difficult subject for you to talk about. But you’ve mentioned so much about your brother, and yet all I know of your sister is that she was an apostate.”

Carver is surprised that Cullen remembers that much, considering that conversation had occurred a few months ago. Has it been that long since all of this began? Maker, how quickly time passes. “I dunno what else there is to say, really,” he says. “She was my twin. My younger twin, so I was always the one looking out for her. She got scared because of her magic sometimes, and I always made her feel better about it. A lot of the time she got on better with Garrett, though, because--” He almost says “because they were both mages,” but he catches himself just in time. “Because she thought the sun shined out his arse. It made me so mad whenever she took his side on something. But she’d almost always apologize to me afterward because she felt bad. She was such a Maker-damned saint sometimes.” He swallows the bite of potatoes that he has in his mouth. It turns to sand in his throat. “I still really miss her.”

“I can’t imagine the pain of losing a sibling.” Cullen reaches across the table to touch Carver’s hand in a comforting manner. “Both of my parents were lost to the Blight. I don’t know what I would have done if I found out that my sisters and brother had been taken as well. It’s a blessing from the Maker, certainly. You have my deepest sympathies regarding everything that you’ve lost.”

“So your siblings were able to escape the Blight?” Carver asks.

“Yes. I’m not certain of the whole story. It wasn’t until almost two years after that Mia was finally able to contact me. All I know is that they tried to leave Honnleath before the horde descended, except he darkspawn were too fast. My siblings were some of the few who were lucky enough to escape with their lives, but my parents weren’t so fortunate. Once the darkspawn reached the village, it didn’t take long before everything was destroyed.” Cullen lets go of Carver’s hand. He sets down his fork, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Even though Honnleath hasn’t been my home since I was a boy, it still saddens me. I’m sure you understand, being a refugee of the Blight yourself.”

Carver tries not to think about Lothering and how everything from his childhood is gone and, according to a letter that his mother had received months ago, may never be rebuilt again. It makes his heart hurt for times long gone, back when his family hadn’t known the pain of loss. Back when their biggest problem was ensuring that the templars didn’t know that there were three apostates living in a cottage on the outskirts of the village.

“You left home to join the templars that early?” Carver inquires, steering himself away from these thoughts.

“Yes. I arrived at Kinloch Hold when I was thirteen and began my training as a recruit. It’s not uncommon for recruits to start that young. I was more than eager to endure the training, even though my only combat experience had been sparring with my brother using a wooden sword.” Cullen cuts the last bite of meat on his plate into two and stabs one of the pieces with his fork, bringing it to his mouth. “I shouldn’t tell you how terrible I was when I started. It would ruin your perception of me.”

Thirteen years old seems awfully young to begin as a templar recruit. Carver then remembers that he’d been only fifteen when he’d enlisted in the Fereldan army, although he hadn’t seen any real action until Ostagar three years later. Some of the youngest recruits in the Gallows are indeed around that same age, now that he thinks about it. Carver has previously thought that they only seem young because he himself is getting older.

“You knew you wanted to be a templar when you were that young?” he asks. “When I was thirteen, all I knew is that I didn’t want to do the same thing as my brother.”

“Quite honestly, I can’t recall a time when I _didn’t_ want to be a templar.” A nostalgic smile crosses Cullen’s lips. “Some of my earliest memories are of going to the Chantry with my family and staring at the templars in complete awe. I didn’t know anything about what they did beyond being soldiers that serve the Maker, but I knew that I wanted to be one. My parents dismissed my interest at first, figuring it was no more than the fleeting fancies of a boy. But as I got older, they realized how serious I was about it, especially when the local Knight-Captain told them how much promise I showed. They agreed that I should be allowed to go to Kinloch Hold and join the templar recruits, and so I went.”

“My sister was afraid of the templars,” Carver says. He takes the last bite of his meal and drains his glass, feeling pleasantly full. “I don’t blame her. Our father made sure all of us knew from a young age that any kind of bad run-in with a templar would mean nothing good for our family. He didn’t even like her going to the Chantry because he thought it would be too much of a risk, but of course she loved going and listening the Chantry sisters’ stories. I had to hold her hand every time we walked by the templars because she was afraid they’d notice her magic and take her away to the Circle. I hated them so much for scaring her.” Carver drags his fork absently across his emptied plate. “Back then, all I knew about templars was that they were people who could take part of my family away if we weren’t careful enough.”

“Your concern for your sister shows that you have always possessed the passion for protecting others, particularly mages, which is one of essential tenets of the Order. Although…” Cullen’s expression darkens slightly. “Sometimes I fear that we are forced to stray from that objective all too often.”

“As long as we keep most of them safe. That’s enough, isn’t it?” Carver isn’t sure whether he believes his own words, though.

Cullen murmurs in agreement. Before he can say anything else on the topic, however, a knock sounds against the door of the office. “That would probably be a Tranquil come to pick up our dishes,” he says. “Please excuse me.”

He stands up to answer the door. Carver initially remains sitting but soon becomes too restless. By the time the Tranquil has entered Cullen’s quarters to take the dinner dishes away, Carver is awkwardly lurking in the corner, not wanting to appear as if he has made himself too comfortable. He doesn’t know whether a Tranquil would be able to pick up on the implications of fraternization, and he doesn’t care to find out.

Once the Tranquil has departed and Cullen has ensured that the door leading from the office to the corridor has been shut, he takes hold of both of Carver’s hands. “Now,” he says, “I don’t think my sister will mind terribly if I postpone finishing her letter to spend time with you.”

“Are you going to tell her that you’re bedding one of your subordinates?” Carver asks.

“Maker, no. She’d never let me hear the end of it. Her letters do often ask whether I’ve found someone, but I doubt this is what she means by that.” He runs a hand along Carver’s cheek, passing a finger across his lower lip. Carver exhales quietly at the touch. “Does your brother know? Oh, but of course he does.” Cullen gives a small self-deprecating laugh. “He knew to give you that oil.”

“Is it… Do you not want him to know?” inquires Carver. Garrett’s refusal to give details to the curious minds of Isabela and Varric indicates that he knows to keep Carver’s affair a secret. However, Garrett has gradually become a well-known figure in Kirkwall, and his possession of information that could compromise the Knight-Captain of the Gallows could be dangerous.

“I suppose there’s no immediate harm in it. I trust that he will not reveal anything about us, at any rate. But now is not the time to worry about that.”

Cullen leans forward to kiss him briefly. The contact sends a tingle down Carver’s spine. When he kisses Cullen in return, he deepens the connection between them, wrapping his arms around the hard exterior of Cullen’s armor as his tongue pushes its way into his mouth. His teeth graze against Cullen’s bottom lip. The noise that the motion draws out from him is beautiful.

“You did say you got more of that oil from your brother, didn’t you?” Cullen asks when they break their kiss to catch their breath. 

“Yeah.” Carver reaches into the pocket of his robes to pull out the vial. “This one’s a little bigger. I reckon we’ll have enough to go two or three times.”

“Andraste’s mercy,” Cullen breathes.

“I mean, not two or three times tonight,” Carver quickly amends. “Not that I’d _mind_ that. But I’m, uh, still a bit sore from yesterday. Unless I’m the one to…” He mimes the motion of sex with his hands, repeatedly inserting the vial into his open fist.

His crude pantomiming earns him a quiet burst of laughter from Cullen. “We’ll see where things take us. You can leave the oil on the nightstand in case we’ll need it.”

Carver takes a few steps backward toward the nightstand and places the vial on top of it. He has barely moved to close the distance between him and Cullen before they are kissing again. Cullen guides him to sit on the bed, and their hands scrabble against each other’s armor, desperate for further contact. A knock on the outer door of Cullen’s office, however, destroys the moment.

“There’s always something, isn’t there?” Cullen sighs in displeasure. “Wait here.”

He stands up from his bed and leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him so that Carver stays out of sight. Unsure of what to do with himself as Cullen greets whomever has demanded his attention, Carver starts removing his armor. Since they have established that they are more than likely having some kind of sexual contact tonight, he might as well get the difficult part over with now. He leaves the plates of armor piled on the floor, and after pulling off his robe he throws it down on top of the armor. He contemplates removing his shirt and trousers as well. That might be a little too presumptuous of him, though. Sitting almost naked on the Knight-Captain’s bed while he attends to business in the next room is so very _wrong_.

The closed door to Cullen’s office does little to muffle the sound of the voices within. Carver cannot quite identify the other voice. Judging by what sounds like an in-depth discussion of duty rosters, it is probably one of the Knight-Lieutenants. They are the ones responsible for drafting the knights’ schedules and submitting them to Cullen for any necessary changes before their final approval

“Also,” the Knight-Lieutenant is saying, “I’ve brought Knight-Lieutenant Everett’s scheduling as well, since he’s on duty right now. He wishes for me to ask you if you’re aware of any errors that would lead to Ser Carver having no evening duties for the past several rotations. I’m not saying that it’s your error, ser, but he’s certainly not the one who keeps giving Ser Carver free time.”

Carver’s heart leaps into his throat. He should have expected that the other templars would take notice of his repeated free evenings over the past couple of months. The confident sound of Cullen’s voice in response indicates that he has prepared for such an accusation.

“It was no error. I was informed that Ser Carver’s mother has recently passed away, and so I did not wish to overwhelm him during such a difficult time.”

“Most of the Gallows knows that he is your favorite, Knight-Captain, but is it really necessary to coddle him like this?” says the Knight-Lieutenant. “I see no reason why he should be given special treatment. He’s not the only templar who’s had to endure personal hardships.”

“Are you challenging me, Knight-Lieutenant Tobin?”

Carver can almost picture the look on Cullen’s face: his upper lip curled up in displeasure, his eyes hardened in accusation. It is the kind of expression that reminds the recipient that Cullen is the second most powerful templar in the Gallows and is not afraid to use his authority accordingly.

“No, ser,” Tobin replies, although he seems reluctant to admit it.

“Good. Thank you for bringing me the duty rosters. You may leave now.”

Sounds of movement come from the office. When Carver hears the outer door close, he slowly eases open the door between Cullen’s bedroom and his office. Cullen sits at his desk, resting his head in his hands for a brief moment before turning to acknowledge Carver.

“Are you going to have to take away my free evenings?” Carver asks. He’s not going to pretend that he has not overheard the recent conversation.

Cullen lifts his head, turning in his seat to acknowledge Carver. “I believe I have done what I can to ward off suspicion for now, but I highly doubt that will be enough to satisfy Knight-Lieutenant Tobin and Knight-Lieutenant Everett forever. As much as I enjoy spending this time with you, I should not continue to abuse my authority like this.”

He stands up from his chair, walking over to where Carver stands. “But,” he continues on, “now is not the time to worry about that. I see you’ve already sped things along by taking off your armor.”

“Yeah. Figured, might as well.” Carver absently toys with the hem of his shirt.

“Will you help me with mine?” Cullen asks.

They seclude themselves into Cullen’s bedroom once again. Carver reaches for the buckles that secure Cullen’s armor to his body. By now, he knows the intricacies of his Knight-Captain’s armor almost as well as he knows his own. Together they make short work of stripping Cullen to his shirt and trousers. Carver buries his face into Cullen’s neck, one hand deftly undoing the other man’s trousers.

“Shouldn’t we--” A quiet gasp of pleasure at Carver’s actions interrupt Cullen’s words. “--move to the bed?”

“Takes too long.” Carver runs a finger along the outline of Cullen’s cock in his smallclothes. He revels in the sound that Cullen makes in response.

“And you want to have this done quickly?”

“I guess not,” Carver admits.

He pulls away from where he has been kissing Cullen’s neck. Their lips meet in a proper kiss as Cullen guides him to the bed. Everything starts moving quickly from there as they remove their shirts and add them to the collection of armor on the floor. Carver runs a hand down the smooth skin and muscle of Cullen’s chest before pressing his lips to his stomach. He trails his mouth down from Cullen’s navel, following the line of hair that disappears under his trousers. Carver tugs down the trousers and smallclothes to reveal the already-hard cock contained within. Gripping it in his hand, he starts to slowly stroke it.

“Maker’s breath, Carver, don’t tease me,” Cullen says. He closes his eyes, his breath fading into a quiet gasp.

In terms of their positioning, Cullen is the more vulnerable one, almost flat on his back with Carver looming over him. Carver has been trained to obey a superior’s orders, however, and even though he hasn’t always been good at it he is all too happy to oblige this time. He brushes his tongue against Cullen’s cock, enjoying the slight twitch that it gives beneath his mouth. At the strained whisper of approval that Cullen gives, he closes his mouth around Cullen, one hand gripping the base and continuing to pump against it.

“Sweet--grace of-- _Andraste_.” Cullen’s response comes out in piecemeal gasps. His hand pulls at Carver’s hair, a little rougher than usual. Carver doesn’t mind, though. The tug of the hair against his scalp only does more to urge him on until he suspects that Cullen is nearing his peak.

“Maker’s balls,” Cullen breathes as Carver gives him one final lick before moving his mouth away from him.

“Did you just say ‘Maker’s balls’?” Carver asks. He has heard Cullen give many creative divine invocations, but none of them have ever crossed into the territory of sexual organs.

“I’m sorry. It’s terribly vulgar.” A trace of pink appears on Cullen’s cheeks as he moves to sit up a little more.

Carver laughs. “Considering what we’re doing, I doubt the Maker cares what you’re saying about His balls.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Cullen slides a hand down Carver’s bared chest. He passes a thumb across the bud of a nipple. Carver shivers at the touch. “Your trousers are still on. Shouldn’t we, ah. Fix that?”

Carver starts to undo his trousers, but Cullen touches his hand to stop him. “Let me,” he says.

He removes Carver’s trousers and smallclothes, adding them to the haphazard pile of clothing on the floor beside the bed. Carver is already fully hard, yearning for the touch of Cullen’s hand, mouth, _anything_. When Cullen kisses him, his hand wrapped around Carver’s cock, Carver gives a quiet moan of satisfaction into his mouth.

“Is sex still an option?” he asks once they have broken their kiss.

“I definitely wouldn’t be opposed to it.” Cullen brushes small kisses against Carver’s jawline. His thumb passes over the sensitive head of his cock. “Do you still think that you’re still unable to… receive?”

“Best play it safe, I think,” replies Carver. He doesn’t fancy the idea of having Cullen thrusting into an already sore arse, no matter how slowly they do things. “Will you let me take you instead?”

“Yes,” Cullen confirms. He gives Carver one final kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I will more than allow it.”

Carver would have never previously thought that this response would bring him so much joy. He searches for a possible reason and ultimately falls short, with the closest answer he can think of being because having his cock inside his Knight-Captain has seemed wholly backwards until now.

“So, uh…” A bubble of uncertainty rises inside him. “Should we do this like we did last time? Except with you…” He makes a motion to indicate Cullen turning over onto his stomach.

“Yes. I think that would be best.”

Cullen shifts position on the bed. Carver has never been in a good position to have a full view of his naked backside until his moment. He has _felt_ it, certainly, but he has never laid eyes on it. Carver never thought he would consider another man’s arse attractive. Cullen’s is nothing short of perfect, however.

Remembering how Cullen had done things last night, Carver takes the vial of oil from the nightstand. He unscrews the lid and carefully pours some onto his fingers, slicking them up. A small amount spills onto Cullen’s sheets.

“Shit,” he mutters. He has to make this stuff last, because who knows what favor his brother will require from him when he needs to get more.

“Something wrong?” Cullen asks.

“No. Just spilled the oil a little. So, uh, are you ready?” It’s such an awkward question to ask, but he doesn’t want to stick his finger into Cullen without giving him warning.

After Cullen has given his confirmation, Carver tries to figure out exactly how he should go about doing this. He spreads open the cleft of Cullen’s arse with his hands, using one slicked finger to find his opening. As much as he tries to convince himself that it will be similar to fingering a girl, only less slippery, he still hesitates. He does not want to go in too quickly and hurt Cullen.

He pushes this fear aside and slips a finger into him. Cullen tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and back tightening. Carver proceeds more slowly, edging his way in little by little. He is not exactly sure what else he should be doing, other than preparing him for the eventual larger intrusion. Being careful not to advance too quickly, he slides his finger in and out, pushing a little deeper each time. When Cullen lets out a combination between a moan and cry, half-muffled into the sheets, Carver knows he has to be doing something right.

“Should I try two fingers?” Carver inquires.

“In a little while.” Sharp gasps of breath in response to Carver’s actions punctuate Cullen’s words. “I’ll let you know.”

After he has adequately prepared Cullen, Carver takes his cock into his hand, rubs some oil onto it, and gently guides it into him. In response, Cullen makes a strained sound that Carver can’t quite identify.

“Does it hurt?” asks Carver, but it’s a stupid question. The stretch and burn of Cullen entering him remains fresh in his memory. A better question would be whether Cullen is experiencing good pain or bad pain.

At first, the lack of verbal response from Cullen concerns him. Cullen then gives a breathy reply of “Yes. I mean, not badly. Just go slowly.”

He keeps his hands planted on either side of Cullen’s arse as he gradually eases himself inside him. It is indeed a bit different from being inside a girl, Carver soon discovers, slipperiness aside. Everything is a little tighter, and he cannot immediately start thrusting away once he is inside. Instead, he pays attention to the wonderful sound of the deep moans that Cullen gives and moves accordingly. Maker, had Carver made that much noise when Cullen did this to him? He hopes the walls are thick enough to muffle everything: the cries of their pleasure, the creaking of the bedsprings, the smacking of skin against skin.

“Fuck, Cullen,” Carver murmurs. He is approaching his climax embarrassingly quickly, but it is not his fault that being inside Cullen feels better than he could have ever imagined. Recalling how Cullen had helped him get off even when he was balls-deep in him, Carver reaches around for Cullen’s cock. He tries to establish a rhythm between the motion of his hand and his hips, but his overwhelming urge to release makes him rut himself desperately against Cullen until he finally spills himself inside him with a final moan.

Fighting off his post-orgasm lethargy, he continues to rub Cullen’s cock until Cullen takes over. Carver presses kisses along his spine, tasting the salty tang of the sweat on his skin before Cullen comes with Carver’s name fresh on his lips. They both breathe heavily, savoring the lingering closeness of their bodies until they separate.

“There are cloths by the bucket of water for cleaning up,” Cullen says. “I’d get them myself, but…”

Carver definitely understands Cullen’s current reluctance to move. He rises from the bed and retrieves the cloths, soaking them in water and wringing them out. One continues to drip slightly as he carries it back to where Cullen lies. He wipes himself clean, watching as Cullen dabs at himself gingerly with the damp cloth.

“You weren’t exaggerating about the soreness,” Cullen comments, wincing as he shifts position.

“Was it still good, though?” asks Carver.

“It was better than good.”

A smile curls Cullen’s mouth upward before he kisses him. He slowly moves to lie down on his side, giving a sigh of contentment. Carver lies next to him and holds him close. Cullen’s skin is so warm against his. He could easily fall asleep here, comfortably cuddled up against his Knight-Captain, although he is not sure whether now is the best time to sleep.

The sound of a knock against the outer door of Cullen’s office reinforces how unwise that course of action would be. When Cullen moves to get up, Carver makes a noise of protest.

“Ugh, why don’t you stay here and pretend you’re not in right now?” He is aware of how playfully sulky he sounds right now, but he does not change his tone.

“Unfortunately, I still have those duty rosters to look at, and even if I’ve been otherwise occupied my office is still technically open to visitors at this hour.” Cullen throws his clothing and robe on with astonishing speed. “You may stay here, of course, until curfew. I’d like the company while I work.”

“Can you work while lying naked in bed?” Carver inquires.

Cullen chuckles. “We’ll see.”

The knock sounds against the outer door, louder this time. Cullen opens up the door to his office, projecting a call of “I’ll be right with you” to whomever waits in the hall. Before he leaves his quarters, he presses a hurried kiss to Carver’s lips. If only it could be longer--but Cullen is out the door and welcoming his visitor into his office before Carver can beg him to stay.

 


	12. Chapter 12

The meaning of the Gallows’ bells becomes clear rather quickly to even the newest recruits. One chime for each hour, on the hour, and a series of chimes indicating mealtimes and curfew. The bells that are heard less often are the continuous toll that does not occur at any routine moment, but only during times of strife that require the templars’ attention, whether in the Gallows itself or elsewhere in Kirkwall: the call to arms.

Carver is in the training yard assisting with drilling some of the recruits on the afternoon when the bells sound. Some of the recruits are thoroughly confused by the sound, but Carver has been trained in exactly what to do. Determined to not panic about whatever catastrophe could be at hand, he reports to the combat squad that he had been assigned to upon achieving his status as a templar.

The Knight-Lieutenant in charge of his squad, Knight-Lieutenant Everett, rattles off the names of everyone supposed to be present. They all give their requisite response of “Ser!” punctuated by a salute. The unspoken question on everyone’s lips is why they have been called to arms.

“Ser,” Carver says. _Someone_ has to ask, and he is not going to suit up in full armor unless he knows why he is fighting. “What’s going on?”

“You will not speak out of turn, Ser Carver,” replies Everett. How easily Carver forgets that many of the superior officers are complete bastards, and not all of them are as fond of him as Cullen is. Everett is one of those middle-aged Knight-Lieutenants with an impressive beard, which tends to be the exact type of templar that despises young upstarts like Carver.

“Sorry, ser.”

Everett pays no attention to his apology. “We have received word that the Qunari in the city have launched an attack on Kirkwall. The Templar Order and the Circle of Magi have been called upon to protect the city. Get in your full armor and meet back here, and then we’ll move out.”

Carver and the other templars give a salute in response and head to their quarters. Carver is already wearing most of his armor from his duty of drilling the recruits. All he needs to do is put on his helmet and make sure everything is secured properly before returning to the courtyard. He hates wearing his helmet during combat, but if he is going to be fighting against Qunari, he will need all the extra protection he can get.

“You’ll be briefed on the way to the city,” Everett says once the squad has reassembled. “We will have two mages, one specializing in offense and the other in healing, accompanying our squad. They will join us shortly. I expect all of you to fight with the strength and integrity that the Maker has granted you. May He bless us all in the upcoming conflict.”

“Yes, ser,” the squad replies in unison.

Once they are outside the walls of the Gallows and crossing the lake to reach the city proper, Carver sees the fires of battle raging throughout Kirkwall. A surge of worry for his brother rushes through him. Will Garrett and his friends join the fight as well? Of course they will. It’s a foolish question to ask. Garrett excels at putting himself right in the middle of the action, even when it is better for him to stay home.

Carver cannot dwell on these thoughts too long, however, before Everett begins giving the squad their instructions. “The majority of the templar units are being deployed to guard the entrances to Hightown to ensure that as few Qunari enter as possible. There is no word yet on how many Qunari have reached Hightown, but the Chantry and the Viscount’s Keep must be protected. That is our duty. We will not charge off and be heroes, but instead defend the city at all costs.”

Everett looks pointedly at Carver when he says “charge off and be heroes.” All right, so _maybe_ Carver has a bad habit during drills with his squad of rushing in with his two-hander when he should be letting those with shields cover him. It’s not his fault that the time he’d spent tagging along with his brother on jobs has gotten him accustomed to prioritizing offense over defense. Some templars are happy to hide behind their shields, but Carver would much rather be slicing the enemy in half.

Kirkwall is in chaos when they arrive. Blood and smoke fill the streets as they make their way through the streets and alleys that Carver used to despise so much when he had first come to the city. The Qunari are everywhere, and Carver honestly had no idea that there were so many Qunari inhabiting the city. By the time his squad reaches Hightown, the Qunari have already overwhelmed the district, blocking their entrance.

“Ser Dominic, Ser Carver, on your left!” barks Everett. “Ser Thalia, Ser Finley, Ser Hugh, cover the mages!” He ducks behind his shield, deflecting the blow from a nearby Qunari’s sword. “Maker preserve us all.”

The air crackles with electricity as one of the mages casts a spell, sending a storm of lightning bolts at the nearest Qunari. Some of the other templars instinctively duck to avoid the burst of magic, but Carver has done enough fighting alongside mages to know that they can judge their own range. He rushes at the nearest Qunari, who has been left disoriented in the wake of the mage’s spell. Blood splatters from the deep cut that Carver’s sword tears across the Qunari’s skin. With a roar of pain, the Qunari stumbles backward.

“Yeah, how do you like that, you bastard?” Carver taunts.

The Qunari snarls at him in Qunlat in response. Carver doesn’t have to know the language to know that it isn’t anything friendly. He dodges the retaliatory lunge with a cry of “Shit!”

“Ser Carver! Don’t provoke them!” Everett yells. “Ser Thalia, cover him so he doesn’t get his arse handed to him!”

Carver grumbles at the reprimand, but he obediently backs off because it’s better getting massacred by the enemy. With the aid of the two mages, they eventually drive off the Qunari that surround them. It is not a clean victory, through. Although they are fortunate enough to have no casualties, some of the templars do not emerge from the conflict unscathed.

“We’ll rest for now,” Everett says once they have all sheathed their weapons. “Ser Finley, have Enchanter Marcus do something about your leg. I don’t want you limping through any more fighting that we have to do. Everyone else, stay on your guard. There could be more coming at any moment.”

Carver leans against the side of a nearby building. Apart from a small nick on his left forearm, he has remained unharmed, although specks of Qunari blood stain his armor. The sweat that has formed under his helmet chafes uncomfortably against his skin, and so he removes it. At least he will be able to breathe properly a for a few minutes before he has to put it back on again, although the smoke that fills the air does nothing to ease his breathing.

Carver’s squad has barely had any time to rest before another templar. a messenger, approaches them. “Knight-Lieutenant Everett?” the messenger inquires.

“Yes?” Everett has taken his helmet off as well. Wearing it has to be even less comfortable than it is for Carver, considering the size of the beard he has under it.

“I have new orders for your squad, ser. The Arishok has made a path toward the Viscount’s Keep, and the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter are leading troops there as we speak. All templar units currently in the Hightown region are to secure all routes headed to the Keep.”

“The Knight-Commander and First Enchanter are in agreement with each other long enough to lead their troops?” Everett sounds skeptical.

“A small group of Kirkwall citizens is actually leading the charge, ser,” the messenger replies. “My orders still come from Knight-Commander, however.”

“Do you know anything about the citizens leading the charge?” Carver asks. As much as he prays to the Maker that Garrett is keeping himself out of his conflict, it would be just like him to rush in and claim all the glory for himself.

The messenger turns to acknowledge him. “I wasn’t told much.” Although Carver cannot see his face under his helmet, the messenger’s tone does more than enough to indicate his surprise that Carver is speaking up. “All I know is that their leader is a nobleman called Hawke.”

Carver’s heart plummets. When people in Kirkwall refer to a Hawke, they mean only one man, and it isn’t Carver. “Fucking void,” he mutters, partly out of irritation of his brother playing the hero and partly out of fear for his brother’s life. Giving very little thought as to what he is doing, he pulls himself away from the wall, tucking his helmet under his arm.

“What are you doing, Ser Carver?” Everett demands.

“That’s my brother charging ahead like an idiot. I have to--” Carver pauses, not entirely sure what he is going to do. Storm up to Garrett in the middle of the inevitable fighting that is occurring at the Viscount’s Keep and demand that he stop trying to be such a bloody hero? But if there is a chance that he can get his brother out of the way of immediate danger and let the templars and city guards do all the fighting, Carver is going to take it.

“Are you deserting your post, knight?” Everett’s eyes are actually bulging in disbelief. It would be amusing were it not for the severity of the situation. “Our orders are--”

“Sod your orders,” Carver retorts. “I’m going whether you like it or not.”

Some of the other templars audibly gasp at his brash statement. Even Enchanter Marcus looks shocked as he looks up in Carver’s direction from where he has been tending to Ser Finley’s mangled leg.

“Ser Carver!” Everett bellows at him as he walks away. Carver does not turn back, however. His brother’s life is more important than following orders, and if his actions earn him punishment, then so be it.

Except he hasn’t quite thought things through past breaking away from his squad. Although the majority of the passages to Hightown from Lowtown have been secured, not all of the Qunari troops have been driven from the district. Fighting against them with a full squad is hard enough, and for all of Carver’s brute strength he is no more than one man. Not having his helmet on makes him even more vulnerable. He would stop to put it on, but it is easier to run when he isn’t wearing it.

As he rounds the corner into an alley that he knows to be a shortcut from the time he spent running errands with Garrett, he finds himself face-to-face with two Qunari who have been lying in ambush. Trying to ignore the immediate panic running through his brain that tells him that he is completely, utterly _fucked_ , he backs away slowly. He has a split second to decide whether he will try to quickly jam his helmet on for the added protection or throw it aside. Deciding to sacrifice defense in favor of attacking quickly, he tosses it aside with a clatter and draws his sword. His hands sweat beneath his gauntlets as he grips the hilt tightly.

“Maker have mercy on me,” he murmurs as both of the Qunari advance toward him with their weapons raised. The rest of his thoughts trail off into a silent prayer: _Maker, my enemies are abundant, many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me_. The words come easily to him, dug up from the canticles that he’d had to memorize as a recruit, but never before has he meant them with such intensity. Never before has he felt such inevitable certainty that he may very possible die here.

The realization is enough to make him falter, and he is barely able to raise his sword to parry the thrust aimed at him. He stumbles back from the force of the blow, having had no time to solidify himself into a strong stance. The other Qunari, taking advantage of Carver’s vulnerability, forgoes the use of his weapon and slams a huge arm across his chest. Carver hurtles sideways into the side of a nearby building. The impact forces all of the air out of his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath as he crumples against the wall behind him. His sword slips out of his grasp and falls to the ground.

Oh Maker, this is truly going to be the end. He’s not ready to die. Not while his brother is still fighting somewhere, unaware that Carver is doing all of this for _him_. Garrett is all he has left of his old life before Kirkwall, and Carver loves his stupid idiot of a brother enough to risk everything to ensure his safety. And Cullen--oh, merciful Andraste, _Cullen_. He won’t know what Carver has done, how he foolishly charged off to protect his brother on his own foolish charge. He imagines Cullen looking through the list of casualties and seeing Carver’s name among the dead. The thought makes his chest tighten as if the Qunari’s blow has struck him again. No, he _can’t_ die here. Not without Cullen. Not without the man who means more than Carver had ever thought a man could mean to him.

Carver closes his eyes, bracing himself for inevitable death. Before either of the Qunari can strike the killing blow, a man’s yell breaks through the air with a desperate cry.

“ _Carver_!”

He knows that voice, but it must be part of a dying dream. The chance of Cullen and his small squad of templars coming to his rescue is far too unlikely for him to believe it as reality. It is no dream, though. The sound of Cullen’s voice giving orders to his squad is more real than Carver could ever imagine.

The squad surrounds the Qunari, blocking off their escape and forcing them into combat. They have left an opening just large enough for Cullen to grab hold of Carver and pull him out of the way. Cullen has his helmet on, but Carver knows it is him from the Knight-Captain’s insignia on his armor.

“Maker’s breath, Carver,” Cullen says. The tremble in his voice indicates his clear worry. “What were you thinking, trying to take them on by yourself? Where’s the rest of your squad? Why aren’t you with them?”

“My brother.” Carver gestures in the direction where he estimates the Viscount’s Keep to be. “I heard that he was going ahead to try to intercept the Qunari headed there. I can’t--” He breaks off, breathing heavily. He rubs his chest where the Qunari had struck him.

“It’s okay. Breathe.” Cullen puts his hands on Carver’s shoulders. The impact of Cullen looking him in the eye is lost when Cullen’s helmet obscures the majority of his face. Having the familiar presence of his Knight-Captain near him, however, is enough to calm him. He runs a gauntleted hand across his face, taking a deep breath at Cullen’s encouragement.

“When did you hear this?” Cullen asks him.

“Dunno. My squad was regrouping after clearing out some Qunari. And then we got the message that we need to work on securing the way to the Viscount’s Keep. Except my brother’s leading the charge there--Maker knows why, he’s such an idiot--and I have to make sure he doesn’t end up playing the hero and getting himself killed.”

“I have complete faith in your brother,” says Cullen. “But it’s too dangerous for you to be going anywhere by yourself. My squad and I are heading toward the Keep ourselves. I will allow you to stay with us as long as you follow my orders.”

At least Cullen knows how important it is for Carver to make sure that Garrett is safe. In the back of his mind, Carver acknowledges that being under the command of the man that he has been bedding is not the best idea. He has no other choice, however. Cullen is right; returning to his own squad will only lead to another ambush.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, ser,” Carver assures him. “I owe you my life, after all.” He doesn’t want to think about how prepared he was for death before Cullen had shown up.

“Good.” Cullen glances over at where his squad has been driving off the Qunari who had attacked Carver. The two assailants are nowhere to be seen, and so Carver can only assume that they have been successfully driven off. “Where’s your helmet? You’ll need it if we have to engage in more fighting.”

“Should be over there somewhere.” Carver gestures over to where he has thrown it.

They return to where Cullen’s squad stands awaiting their next orders. “We made them retreat for now, ser,” says one of the templars. “And we found these.” He holds up Carver’s helmet and sword.

“Those belong to Ser Carver.” Cullen nods in Carver’s direction. The templar returns them to him, and Carver sheaths his sword on his back. He puts his helmet on as well, even though he would rather remain unhindered by it in any future combat. “He got separated from his squad and will be joining us for the time being. I assure you that he is a good fighter who will not slow us down. Ser Lachlan.” He addresses one of the templars who, like Carver, uses a two-hander instead of a shield. “He’ll be joining you in any full-on assaults that we do. I’m trusting you to keep an eye on him.”

“Yes, ser.” Lachlan salutes in acknowledgment of the order.

“Now, we move out,” Cullen declares. “We’ll continue on toward the Viscount’s Keep. All of you, stay sharp.”

Carver has rarely had the opportunity to see Cullen in action before. As they fight their way forward, he has to do all that he can to remain focused on swinging his sword and dodging blows rather than standing in awe of the way that Cullen fights so effortlessly. The Knight-Captain uses his sword and shield as if they are extensions of his arms, moving with a grace that Carver could never achieve. He is glad that his helmet obscures his face so that the other templars do not notice that he is looking at Cullen with awestruck puppy eyes, nor do they see the beam of pride that crosses his features whenever Cullen praises his actions in combat.

When they reach the Keep, a group of templars have already gathered by the entrance. A blockade of Qunari prevent their entry, locking them in a standoff. Carver sees Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino among them, but his brother is nowhere to be found. His heart pounds in his chest as he hopes with every fiber of his being that Garrett has not put himself into any danger--or worse, has already succumbed to the Qunari onslaught.

“Knight-Commander.” Cullen walks up to her and salutes. “What’s happening? Did Hawke and his companions successfully push through to protect the Viscount?”

“The Viscount is dead.”

The cold, severe tone of Meredith’s voice shows no emotion in response to the tragedy of the death of the city’s leader. Carver’s stomach feels like it is almost ready to drop out of his body. If the Viscount could not be saved from the Qunari, then that does not bode well for Garrett.

“However,” Meredith continues on. “I have heard that Hawke has negotiated the departure of the Qunari and has engaged the Arishok in single combat to declare today’s victor.”

Single combat. Just when Carver thought that his brother could not get any more foolish, something like this happens. If he were not in the presence of the Knight-Commander, he would break through the defending Qunari himself to get inside the Keep. He has already defied authority enough today, however, and so he stands with his feet rooted to the ground, silently praying that Garrett stays alive. How can he, though? Garrett is nothing but a mage, and even though he is adequately skilled in melee combat it will not be enough to best the Arishok. His brother is probably not even wearing heavy armor. For all of his impressive displays of magic that Carver knows him to be capable of, he fears deep in his heart that it will not be enough.

Meredith and Cullen continue their conversation, but unless their words contain confirmation either way regarding the state of his brother’s life, Carver cannot bring himself to listen to them. He stares at the closed doors leading into the Keep, trying not to think of the battle that rages behind them. _Maker, keep my brother in your protection_ , he thinks in desperate prayer. _I can’t lose him too_. He clenches his hands into fists to prevent them from shaking and revealing his turmoil of emotions.

After what feels like an age, the doors open. Several Qunari warriors walk out and speak quietly to the ones who block the templars from entering the Keep. One of them then approaches Meredith, his weapon sheathed as a sign of peace.

“The Arishok has been defeated,” he declares in a rumbling voice. “We will abide by his terms and leave the city, now that the stolen tome has been returned.”

“Praise be to the Maker,” says Meredith. She turns to address Cullen. “Knight-Captain, bring your squad in. We must assess the situation.”

“Understood, Knight-Commander,” Cullen replies.

Whether Carver counts as part of Cullen’s squad is unclear, but he follows the other templars inside anyway. The confirmation of the Arishok’s defeat does not indicate anything about Garrett’s fate, and Carver cannot sit back and wait while not knowing whether his brother lives.

Meredith and Orsino break their way through until they reach the throne room. The room is more crowded than Carver expects, filled with the civilians who have been trapped inside. He notices some of Garrett’s friends among them--Varric, Isabela, Fenris, Anders--but the only face he wants to see right now is his brother’s. And there he is, limping forward as he leans on his staff for support while one hand clutches his side. But he’s alive, oh Maker, he’s _alive_ , and that is all that matters to Carver. A huge weight lifts from his chest, and it is all he can do not to rush forward and embrace his brother in relief.

“Is it over?” Meredith inquires.

“It’s over,” Garrett confirms. He tries to straighten up, but he gives a sharp gasp of pain and clutches his staff once more.

The crowd erupts into cheers and cries of “The city has been saved!” Carver’s relief, however, quickly gives way to more worry. Garrett’s status as a mage has never been more conspicuous than it is right now. Not only does he have his staff in plain view, but every templar in the room will be able to sense the immense magical power that radiates from him. The air stinks of the frost and flame that he had used against the Arishok, and an enormous icicle sticks out of the chest of the Arishok’s body lying several feet behind where Garrett stands.

Meredith sheaths her sword and closes the distance between her and Garrett. Is she going to arrest him? She has every reason to do so, as much as Carver hates the idea. She would never allow an apostate with such power to walk free, even if the apostate has saved the entire city in his foolish heroism.

When she breaks the silence that has fallen in the absence of the people’s roars of applause, Carver fears the worst. “It appears Kirkwall has a new champion,” she declares.

The crowd breaks into cheers again. Garrett tries to smile back at them, but whatever injuries he has sustained make his expression look pained and fake. Carver waits for the Knight-Commander’s inevitable “but” that continues her response, something like “but you’re an apostate, and I have no choice to bring you to the Circle for the protection of others.” She gives no further statement, however. Instead, she extends a hand to Garrett in an overture of peace. Garrett grasps her hand and shakes it.

“The city is in your debt, Serah Hawke,” says Meredith. “May the Maker bless you for saving us from catastrophe.”

“Thank you,” Garrett replies. “But right now I’m bleeding out my side, so it would be brilliant if you’d let me get that fixed up before you give me a celebratory procession or something.”

Carver sighs at his brother’s humorous reply. Meredith raises her eyebrows in response but does not say anything to reprimand his words.

“Very well,” she says. “You and your companions may depart. I will ensure that you are notified of any further developments regarding your actions today. May you go and walk in the light of the Maker, Champion.”

 _Champion_. The title holds a certain weight to it, indicating that Meredith’s statement about Kirkwall having a new champion is much more than a mere turn of phrase. Is that what the city is going to call Garrett now? As if he needs yet another reason to feel entitled to act like an absolute prat.

Garrett does not stay for much longer after Meredith dismisses him. When he leaves the throne room, he walks directly past where Carver stands. With Carver in his full armor and helmet, however, his brother has no way of recognizing him.

Cullen steps forward. “Knight-Commander. Your orders?”

“Spread the word that the city is safe once more, although it has now been left without a leader.” Meredith looks toward the empty throne of the Viscount, left unfilled for the lack of a proper heir. “For now, the Templar Order will maintain peace and governance in the city. We will keep it proceeding on a righteous path and work toward rebuilding what has been lost today. And if the mages think that they can rise up because one of their own has saved our city…” A slight sneer appears in her expression. “They are sorely mistaken.”

“I will send out word at once, ser.” Cullen salutes. “My squad, come with me.”

They head out. Carver does not want to return to the Gallows, though, not without talking to his brother first. He hurries to catch up to Cullen as they make their way out of the Viscount's Keep.

“Ser,” he says. “Can I talk to you?”

Cullen steps aside so they are out of the immediate hearing of the rest of the squad. “What is it?” he asks Carver.

“I want to stop by my brother’s estate to talk to him before I go back to the Gallows.” Carver phrases his intentions as a statement, not a question. Asking permission makes him feel as if he has a greater chance of Cullen refusing to allow him. He still adds “Will that be all right?” at the end of his words as a measure of respect.

Cullen hesitates before answering, and Carver fears the worst. “I should not allow it,” he says finally. He speaks quietly in an extra measure of precaution against eavesdropping. “But I know how important your brother is to you. If I see Knight-Lieutenant Everett, I will notify him that I found you after you left your squad and that you will return to the Gallows shortly.” He brushes his fingers against Carver’s hand in a brief motion. “When you come back, come to my office. There are some things we need to discuss.”

A pang of worry gnaws at Carver’s gut at these words. He pushes this concern out of his mind with an unusual burst of optimism, taking the day’s events into account. “Yes, ser,” he says in a deferential response. “I was honored to fight with you today.”

“And I you, Ser Carver.” He cannot see Cullen’s facial expression beneath his helmet, but he knows from the tone in his voice that his hardened Knight-Captain expression has given way to a smile. “I will see you when you return to the Gallows.”

Carver gives a final salute in farewell, and then he disappears into the streets of Hightown and the destruction left in the wake of the strife that Kirkwall has seen on this day.


	13. Chapter 13

Now that the Qunari have emptied from Hightown, the damage that the day’s conflict becomes more apparent than ever. A few of the buildings show signs of fire damage, and corpses of those who were not lucky enough to survive litter the streets. Carver’s heart aches when he passes by a boy, no older than eleven or twelve years old, trying to rouse a woman lying by a pile of rubble. One of the city guards has already stopped to help the boy, however, and so Carver continues onward. He hopes that the estate has not been damaged. That is a possibility that he has not even considered in his overwhelming worry about his brother.

He eventually arrives at the fortunately unharmed estate and knocks on the door. While waiting for the door to open, he removes his helmet and tucks it under his arm so he can be easily identified. As usual, Orana welcomes him when she opens the door.

“Has my brother come back yet?” he asks her.

“Master Hawke is upstairs. Messere Anders is tending to his injuries.”

“Can I see him?” Carver fixes her with a hard look that conveys the unspoken message of “I’m going inside to see my brother whether you let me or not.”

“Yes, messere,” Orana replies.

Relief floods through Carver as Orana permits him to enter the house. He leaves his helmet and sword by the door before following the quiet sound of voices upstairs to Garrett’s bedroom. The door has been left open, and Carver peers inside. His brother lies shirtless on the bed in the strange posture of half on his stomach, half on his side as Anders uses his magic to knit up the large gash that cuts across the bottom of the right side of his ribcage. Carver recoils at the sight. He knows that Garrett had been injured, but he has not expected the wound to be so severe.

“What are you doing here, templar?” Anders demands upon taking notice of Carver.

“Anders.” Garrett’s voice has a sharp note of warning in it. “Back off.”

Anders gives a dismissive “hmph” in response. The aura of healing magic usually feels green, like freshly-cut grass or a clean countryside breeze, but Anders’s magic has turned sour and angry at Carver’s presence.

“Why _are_ you here, though?” Garrett asks, sounding more curious than accusing. “I would have thought you’d gone back to the Gallows, since the fighting is over.”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” replies Carver. He remains standing in the doorway, uncertain of whether he should come further into the room. “After you decided to be a big bloody hero and everything. I was with Cullen and his squad when he and the Knight-Commander came into the Keep, so I already know about everything that’s happened.”

“Well, I’m just peachy, except for the part where the Arishok thought it would be hilarious to stab me.” Garrett grins, although it more closely resembles a grimace. “I don’t recommend it, by the way. But I promise you it looks worse than it feels.”

“I think you’re absolutely mad for agreeing to duel to the death with the Arishok,” Carver says. “But I’m glad you’re all right. Really glad, actually.” His words come out a little sheepish in his embarrassment to admit how scared he had been when he had heard that Garrett was fighting the Arishok.

“Thanks, Carver.” Garrett closes his eyes, exhaling through the pain that he undoubtedly feels. A sharp gasp of breath interrupts his calm breathing. “Ow!” he exclaims, flinching away from Anders. “Maker’s breath, that hurts. Give me some warning next time, will you?”

“If you held still, it wouldn’t hurt so much,” Anders points out. He looks up at Carver. “Your brother is a terrible patient, you know.” His tone is less openly hostile now, as if he has forgotten that he is speaking to a templar.

“I thought you said it wasn’t as bad as it looked, Brother,” says Carver.

“Well, I don’t want you to worry about me too much. It would ruin our dynamic.” Garrett laughs.

“I still think you’re a prat, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It does, thanks.” At Anders’s actions, Garrett winces again. “Surely you’re almost done by now?” he asks Anders.

“I’m still working on closing up the wound. I’m trying to leave only a minimal amount of scarring.”

Anders furrows his brow in concentration as he works. It reminds Carver of how his father looked whenever any of his children came crying to him with a scraped knee or elbow for him to heal. Carver remembers feeling the warmth of magic against his skin and thinking that there is no way that magic can be bad if it could be used to help people who are hurt.

Garrett gives a dramatic fake sigh. “No impressive scar? That’s unfortunate. I was hoping I’d be able to show it off.”

“I’d say being named the Champion of Kirkwall is impressive enough,” says Anders. “An apostate who saved the entire city and put an end to a conflict that even the Knight-Commander couldn’t solve. This is going to change things, Hawke. All of the mages in Kirkwall will rally around you. And I’d watch yourself, templar.” He glares at Carver. “The mages aren’t going to submit to the templars’ oppression for much longer. You’ll see.”

Except Anders has been saying that ever since Carver has known him, and still nothing has changed. The only good thing that has come out of Garrett being revealed to the Templar Order as a mage is that Carver no longer has to fear him getting arrested and brought to the Circle. Unless Knight-Commander Meredith changes her mind, and… no, Carver doesn’t want to think about that.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Carver replies, even though he knows better than to argue with Anders on the subject of mages’ freedom. “The Knight-Commander said that the mages are mistaken if they think that this is enough of a reason for them to rise up. So you should be careful, Brother.” He gives Garrett a serious look. “There’s no telling how she is going to use you now that she’s named you Champion.”

“So you’re going to believe her, the mage-hating Knight-Commander?” Anders retorts before Garrett can respond. He glares at Carver, stopping the flow of magic that knits up Garrett’s torn skin. “You’d stand with her at the expense of your own brother?”

Anders’s words hit Carver like a blow to the stomach. “Shut the fuck up, _mage_ ,” he snarls. If Anders were not in the middle of healing his brother, he would have punched him straight in the face. How _dare_ Anders suggest that he would value the templars over Garrett? The Order may have been his life for the past three years, but his brother has been there for him in one way or another since Carver’s birth. After everything that they have endured, nothing will break that bond, no matter what the future holds.

Anders does not back down from Carver’s angry gaze. The aura of his magic buzzes around him like a swarm of angry hornets. A cold burst of air emanates from him, and tiny ice crystals materialize from his fingertips. In an instinctive reaction, Carver silences Anders’s magic, smothering the spell before it can fully burst forth.

Anders makes the sound of a wounded animal, his face twisting in fury. Temporarily blocked from using his magic, he aims a punch at Carver. Carver leans away and retaliates with a swift blow that connects with Anders’s jaw. The hard edges of his gauntlets break the skin at the impact. A flicker of electric blue appears in Anders’s otherwise brown eyes as the demon inside him threatens to rise up.

“That’s enough!” Garrett shouts.

He sounds so much like their father that if Carver did not know better, he would suspect that his father has returned from the dead to scold him one last time. The yell is enough for both Carver and Anders to reluctantly step away from each other, although Anders continues to glare daggers in Carver’s direction.

“Now,” says Garrett, his voice taking on a calmer tone. “Since the two of you can’t play nice, I can’t have you both in here. Carver, you wait downstairs until Anders is done fixing me up. Anders, I want you to leave as soon as you are done. Is that clear?”

They both grumble out an affirmative reply, as if they are children being punished. Carver stomps his way out of the room and slams the door behind him. He wishes that Anders had never set foot into the estate, even though he is one of the best healers who can help Garrett. What is worse is that Anders is right about Garrett becoming a source of inspiration to the mages of Kirkwall. What will the Gallows be like when Carver returns? Will the mages be celebrating the victory of an apostate until the templars shut down their jubilation? Carver has not considered the full repercussions of his brother ending the Qunari invasion until hearing the words of Anders and Knight-Commander Meredith. Even though he regards the day’s events as nothing more than his brother playing the hero like he always does, the rest of Kirkwall sees much more: an apostate whose act of saving the city has made him untouchable.

Carver slumps down into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace downstairs with a huff of displeasure. The dog, who lies on the rug in front of the fire, gets up and pads his way toward him. He jumps up and puts his front paws up on the chair, wagging his stubby tail eagerly.

“Down, boy,” Carver says, although he still pets the dog’s head to give him the attention that he craves. “You know,” he continues on as he scratches behind the dog’s ears, “next time you see Anders being an arse, you have my full permission to bite him.”

Quiet footsteps approach the chair that Carver sits in, The dog returns to his spot in front of the fire after receiving one last pat, and Carver turns slightly in his seat to notice Orana’s arrival.

“Would messere like anything to eat or drink?” she asks him.

“No.” Carver’s reply comes out more snappish than he intends.

Orana gives him a look that resembles an injured halla. “As you say, messere,” she says before bowing slightly in acknowledgement of him and backing away.

Guilt wells inside Carver at having taking his temper out on her, but she is gone before he has a chance to apologize. He sinks back in the chair, gazing into the fire and trying to rid himself of his foul mood before he goes in to talk to his brother.

When Anders comes downstairs and walks toward the door without a word to acknowledge Carver, the dog rises and chases after him, barking loudly. The canine devotion and willingness to follow orders heartens him a little, although the dog does not go as far as biting Anders. Perhaps that is for the best. Carver does not fancy the idea of Anders releasing Justice on the dog.

Upon hearing the front door close as a sign of Anders’s departure, Carver goes upstairs into his brother’s bedroom once more. Garrett now lies on his back, propped up against his pillows. A bandage wraps around his abdomen, likely as a measure of precaution in case his wound opens up again. Despite the quarrelsome circumstances that had caused him to order Carver out of the room earlier, the smile that Garrett gives him when he enters indicates that he is still pleased to see him.

“Well, I definitely didn’t expect to have to watch a mage and a templar squabble like children while getting healed up,” says Garrett. “Don’t worry, I told Anders off for what he said. But that doesn’t mean you get to walk away without me telling you how much of a blighted idiot you were for hitting him.”

“Don’t tell me you agree with him.” Carver’s anger resurfaces at his brother’s words. His hands clench into fists, and the metal of his gauntlets digs into his skin. “Because I would _never_ stand against you. You’re my brother, and I’m always going to honor that.”

“Yes, that was what I told him off for. But everything else...” Garrett shifts position to sit up a little more. He winces slightly from the strain that the motion puts on his injury. “You know that I value the freedom of mages. Not with as much fervor as Anders does, but I won’t forget everything that our family sacrificed so that our mages didn’t end up in the Circle. So if the other mages in Kirkwall want to see me as some kind of symbol of what apostates can accomplish, I’m not going to stop them. But what Anders doesn’t understand is that I’m a human first and a mage second. If people are going to talk about what I did and call me ‘Champion’ or whatever, it shouldn’t be just because I’m a mage. And I definitely don’t want all of the mages in the city rallying around me. I have enough trouble keeping track of Anders and Merrill.” He gives a brief chuckle.

“So where’s the part where you call me a blighted idiot, again?” Carver asks, realizing that Garrett has gone off on a tangent and has not yet returned to scolding him.

“Because I thought you’d know how foolish it is to hit the man who can go all sparkly and tear you apart.” The slight smile of Garrett’s chuckle has not yet left his lips. “And you’ve already told me to be careful, but I want you to be careful too.”

“Believe me,” says Carver, “Anders better _hope_ that I don’t see him again, or else I’ll send the other templars after him.”

“I’m not talking about Anders.” Garrett’s face turns to seriousness. “I’m talking about your Knight-Commander. She knows that you’re my brother, and she may find a way to use that. I’m not sure how exactly she might go about doing that, but you should watch yourself. If something’s to come out of all of this, I don’t want you to get dragged into it.”

“I can’t promise you anything, Brother. But thanks for your concern.” He takes a few steps closer to the bed. “And, er… Thanks for staying alive, too. There was a moment there when I was afraid you’d…” He trails off there, not wanting to stray too far into sentimentality.

Garrett gives him a friendly punch on the arm. “Aww. Look at you, you’ve gone soft.” When Carver does not retaliate, his brother laughs. “I think that’s the first time you haven’t hit me back.”

Carver scowls. “You’re injured. It doesn’t count.”

“And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re alive too.” When Garrett touches his arm this time, the gesture is much more gentle. “I know we don’t say things like this enough. But regardless of everything that’s happened, you’re still my baby brother, and I love you.”

“So do I, Brother.”

Carver allows himself a smile. As much as he hates these tender moments, hearing an affirmation of the familial love between him and his brother is more than enough to sustain him after the gut-wrenching fear for Garrett’s life that he has experienced today.

“So.” His brother clears his throat, moving his hand away from Carver’s arm. “You should head back to the Gallows. They’ll need you there. But do try to remember to visit every once in a while.”

“I’ll try, Brother. Goodbye, for now.”

Garrett lifts a hand to him in a motion of farewell, and Carver returns the gesture before walking away from him.

* * *

When Carver arrives at the gate to the Gallows, the templars standing guard stop him. “Whose squad are you in?” one of them asks him.

“Knight-Lieutenant Everett’s,” Carver replies, wondering why this is relevant. “But I got separated from them and joined up with Knight-Captain Cullen’s squad for a while.” Saying that he got separated from his usual squad sounds better (and a lot less disobedient) than the truth.

“Check the list to see if there’s anyone from Knight-Lieutenant Everett’s squad who hasn’t returned yet,” the guard says to the other.

The other templar pulls out a list and consults it. “Ser Carver?” he asks in confirmation, eyeing Carver through the slit in his helmet.

“Yeah.” Carver wonders what kind of list this is. Is it a list of those classified as missing in action or those who have not yet returned to the Gallows? It doesn’t matter, though. Cullen is the only templar who Carver would want to let know that he is safe, and Cullen already knows that much.

Remembering how Cullen had said that he wants Carver to report to him when he is back at the Gallows, Carver immediately heads toward Cullen’s office. As he approaches the wing that holds the templar offices and sleeping quarters, he passes by a group of young apprentices, no older than their early teens, clustered together in the shadow of the hall. They do not seem to be doing anything suspicious, but apprentices are not permitted to leave the Circle Tower without an escort, which these apprentices lack.

“You’re out of bounds,” Carver reprimands them. “Explain to me what you’re doing here and I’ll let all of you off with a warning.”

“We don’t need to listen to you anymore, _ser_.” The way the apprentice who speaks up says “ser” is particularly scathing for a boy whose voice hasn’t even deepened yet.

“Excuse me?” Carver glares at them. He hates having to punish the apprentices for minor infractions like being out of bounds, but any sympathy that he holds toward mages disappears the moment that one of them disrespects him.

“A mage saved the city,” the apprentice boy says. “An apostate. If an apostate can do that, we don’t need you templars to keep us trapped here.”

“And Serah Hawke is going to come free all the mages now,” adds one of the apprentice’s companions.

“You’re talking bullshit,” Carver snaps. He has expected this kind of talk from Anders, but hearing the young apprentices say these things shows just how significant it is that his brother is a mage.

“Is there a problem?” comes the sound of a female voice.

Carver turns to see a Knight-Lieutenant approaching them. Knight-Lieutenant Brighid, he thinks? He is awful at remembering the names of the templars with whom he does not interact regularly.

“These apprentices are out of bounds and--” Carver almost says “talking shit,” but that is a much too vulgar turn of phrase to use in front of a Knight-Lieutenant. “Spreading lies,” he says instead.

“Very well. I will take care of issuing punishment to them.” Brighid fixes the apprentices with a hard look, although they do not back away from her. “As you were, knight,” she adds, addressing Carver.

“Thank you, ser,” Carver says. Whatever punishment given to the apprentices will have much more weight coming from a Knight-Lieutenant. He suspects that this small act of apprentice rebellion will be only one of many in the Gallows as the mages find inspiration in what Garrett has done.

Carver continues on toward Cullen’s office. Once he has been given permission to enter, he goes in and sits in his usual chair in front of the desk. “You wanted to talk to me about something?” he inquires.

“Yes.” Behind his desk, Cullen looks weary and exhausted from a day’s worth of conflict. “But first, Knight-Lieutenant Everett has informed me of how you deserted your squad to go to the Viscount’s Keep. He demanded that you receive punishment for that, and I’m afraid I have to agree with him. I understand that you were concerned about the safety of your brother,” he says before Carver can object, “but your duty to follow orders in a combat zone should take precedence over personal issues. As a result, you will be suspended of your privilege to leave the Gallows on free days until further notice, and you will take on extra duties at the Chantry to give you time to reflect on your misconduct.”

“Yes, ser,” Carver says in reluctant acceptance. Cullen may bend the rules for him more than he should, but for such a major infraction Carver should not expect to escape punishment easily. With the way that Cullen describes his actions as desertion, he is lucky that his punishment isn’t anything more severe. Lesser templars would probably be stripped of their knighthood for such actions.

“The real issue, however,” Cullen continues on, steepling his fingers and surveying Carver intently, “is that you have lied to me.”

“What do you mean?” So maybe Carver had neglected to tell him that he had not been _separated_ from his squad as much as he had _deliberately left_ it, but that barely qualifies as a lie.

“You did not tell me that your brother is an apostate.”

The seriousness in Cullen’s eyes makes a swirl of nervous energy form in Carver’s stomach. He had not had any malicious intent in neglecting to mention anything about Garrett being a mage. Surely Cullen knows that Carver has to protect his brother just as he’d once had to protect the identities of his father and Bethany.

“I couldn’t tell you,” Carver points out. “I couldn’t let him get taken to the Circle. And templars aren’t required to turn in members of their own family.” He had been careful to note that rule when he had become a templar to ease some of his guilt.

“Not required, perhaps, but it is still dangerous to let apostates walk free, no matter what relationship you have with them.” Cullen gives a slow exhale, resting his forehead against his entwined hands. “Excluding any rules in place, however, I am hurt that you did not trust me enough to confide in me as we became closer. Because I may have been willing to look the other way for your sake, as I am doing now.”

“After what you just said about how it’s dangerous to let apostates walk free?” Carver replies. “Because my brother isn’t dangerous. You’ve met him. You saw how the Knight-Commander called him the champion of the city.”

“Yes. And that makes the matter more complicated.” Cullen raises his eyes to look at Carver once more. “There is no denying that your brother has done a great service to Kirkwall. The Knight-Commander is correct to laud his actions, but his status as a mage makes the situation much more complex. If I had known prior--”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” Carver insists. “The Knight-Commander still wouldn’t have known. And she didn’t have him brought to the Circle, so it doesn’t matter.”

A crease appears between Cullen’s brows in a slight frown. “Even I do not know how she intends to handle everything after what happens today. She may have an ulterior motive in her treatment of your brother. But this is not about her. This is about you, and me, and how I wish that you could have confided in me.”

“I’m sorry,” says Carver. “But I had to protect him. You have to understand that.”

“I do.” Cullen stands up from his seat. He walks around the side of the desk, stopping in front of Carver’s chair and touching his hand in a tender motion. “And I apologize for implying that your brother is dangerous. With the stress of everything that has happened today, it is all too easy for me to forget myself.”

“It’s okay,” Carver assures him. “And I promise you that I have nothing else that I’m hiding from you. Because I trust you more than anything.”

“Good.” Cullen clasps his hand tightly before bringing their entwined fingers to his lips. “Things may very well change after this, with the mages gaining confidence from your brother’s victory. But I want you to know that I will always stand by you and have your back.”

“Same here,” says Carver. “Not just because you’re my Knight-Captain, but because you’re…” He trails off, unsure of how to articulate his feelings. “Because I’ve never felt this way about anyone else.” And he may not be sure whether he has a name for it, but he knows that he has developed a strong emotional and physical bond with Cullen that will not fade away anytime soon, no matter what hardships they face.

“Neither have I.” Cullen leans forward to kiss the corner of Carver’s mouth. “I’m glad to have you, Carver, and everything that we’ve shared.”

Carver rises from his chair and meets him in a proper kiss. The junction of their mouths is almost enough for him to forget about everything else. Cullen runs a hand along his cheek before letting it tangle into his hair. Carver continues to kiss him as if Cullen is the only important thing in his world--and in this moment, he is. After everything that has happened, he is fortunate to have Cullen to support him as a fellow templar, someone who can strengthen and inspire him in a way that no one else can.

They eventually break their kiss, resting their foreheads against each other’s. They entwine both of their hands once again with no further words spoken between them. Nothing more is needed. The bond between them is enough for them to keep moving forward, no matter what may change in the Gallows and beyond.

Their hands clasp tightly. Carver feels stronger than he has ever felt, and with Cullen at his side, he knows that he is ready to face anything that the Maker throws at him.


End file.
